I can’t sit still, but when I write,

When I write,

I lose track of time, and space. The numbers on the clock rotate and I fall out of the month, outside of the place, out the person.

Sometimes I lose an entire day, lost in ten thousand words of a story, one word at a time, an idea so mundane, a sentence of an idea, a piece of a frame. I go through the computer screen like the back of the closet in the escape to Narnia, setting off into the world of my writing, into worlds and patterns and daydreams, teasing and tickling small thoughts to take shape and formation.

My mind moves at a different pace. Sometimes when I write, I get so lost, I forget who I am, or where I am, my leg, numbing itself to sleep, tingling me back to the present, nudging me that I’m here. I’m not really here. Sometimes when I write, I write myself into an hour of tears, of crying, crying over people who I’ve lost, people who I’ve forgotten, people who are unfairly treated.

I’ve written so many unfinished essays on racism, and cried over them all. They are broken thoughts, fragmented essays, stuttering starts of inadequate “I’m sorry’s,” and “why am I apologizing,” and “what the hell do I do?”. I’m so sorry. My friends. My community. We need to talk. We need so much more than talking

I’ve been trying to write about how friendships end, and how new friendships are formed, and why acquaintances aren’t enough, why we need people, why we need each other, what community builds, for us all. I’m trying to grasp, handle, tell what I’m feeling, share what I’m seeing, unpack the wires in my brain, I’ve been trying to articulate

I’m here,


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