– Language is a metaphor for the experience. It’s as arbitrary as the mass of chaotic images we call memory – but we can put it into lines to narrativize over fear. –
–Out of the sad sack of sad shit that was my life, I made a wordhouse. –
– In my head I’d think, I am the woman you teach from literature. But don’t teach me as voiceless this time. This time, I am yelling. I am larger than you. I am not sorry. Do your worst. –
– We are all swimmers before the dawn of oxygen and earth. We all carry the memory of that breathable blue past.
It is possible to carry life and death in the same sentence. In the same body. It is possible to carry love and pain. In the water, this body I have come to slides through the wet with a history. What if there is hope in that. –
– Words carry oceans on their small backs. –
– The things that happen to us are true. The stories we tell about it are writing. A body away from us. Writing-with its forms and contortions, its resistances and lies, its unending desires, its on and on. –