Thursday, December 16, 2010
I wish I didn't feel the need to write here everyday. It makes me feel broken, lost, a bit needy even, to crave this space as I do. Her death was the catalyst, the inspiration I've been waiting for since I first thought, sometime in my eighth or ninth year, about writing a book, about a beautiful worn spine with my name trailing down it. I hate that her death has cracked me open so severely words pour from me without forethought or consent. I wake each morning full of words that seep out of me; they drip from my fingers; they itch; they beg to be let out. To release them is to breathe. I wish I could hold them in, stop breathing, but the words bring her back. As the seconds without her pile on top of one another - a stack so high I cannot see where it ends or begins - the words too stack up. Fifteen, twenty, one hundred words for every second without her pour from me. I want to build a staircase that will reach wherever she is, but the words crumble beneath me like the paper they rest on. They are so inadequate and flimsy. Yet each night I exhale, empty myself in preparation for more words, begin building the staircase once more. Somehow hope still resides here.