A Decade of Bangles

Thinking about writing is simple. Picturing yourself sitting down in front of a computer screen, hovering over a blank sheet of loose leaf, pen in hand- that's the easy part. Fingers against keys and pen to paper- that's a totally different experience.

Being lost in your words is what I think being in a coma would be like. You know that life is going on around you, you are aware of whats happening but lost inside yourself. Do all writers have this out of body feeling? Upon revisiting their words, do they question where such intense imagery comes from? If those particular details grew from their own memories, dreams, where?

A piece of writing is never truly complete, years later you will want to change a comma to a period or a noun to a pro noun. The writer's journey to perfection is never finished, but upon reaching that final sentence for the first time, feeling your thoughts come full circle- a wave of adrenaline rushes against you. A feeling that can last and last, but afterward feels so distant. You're not sure how you got there, but once the hangover sets in, you feel empty, tired, released.

The rush of looking at a page that was once empty but not full is unexplainable. Ask a drug addict how to explain the euphoria of their first high, a marathon runner crossing the finish line- its all a fog until it's over.

Maybe all is Not Lost

Forcing writing is impossible. To think about the vision before you see it creates a falsity that you can not deny. It can be compared to nothing else, because the relationship a writer has with words is not love nor lust nor envy. It can not be faked.

I once knew language. I understood how to manipulate words so a painting would emerge as each sentence melted into the next. I could fill pages with just once glance, in one instance I would be sent into a frenzy.

For too long time, I have not seen anything. I have not felt language in my life. I have been lost. Until I actually was lost. That's what I saw it. Alone behind the wheel, during the 354 mile trip - wrong turns and a broken GPS - my vision came back to me.

We sat next to each other awkwardly; small talk was neither of our strong points. The weather was nice and we both commented on the usual cold that’s expected this time of year. Really, we both starred off, the small was no small talk. I wasn’t listening and I'm confident if I was able to ask today, you wouldn’t remember a single sentence.

I think about all the times we spent together that I took for granted, rare were the moments where you exposed your vulnerability. The patience you proved to have, your persistence was genuine, as was your disappointment the many times I let you down.

You always smelled of familiarity, of an entire days worth of cigarettes. Our eye contact is short lived. I notice the walls, they're bare for the most part; the ceiling looks unstable and there are cracks from the corner to corner. I wonder aloud if anyone else has noticed the cracks. My inquiry is not acknowledged and we continue.

Somewhere around mile 150, I remember a moment, us standing in a sea of pink & white and black both smirking towards one another. And I can see it so clearly.