How long can I pretend to be someone else? To keep on hiding like this.
It all depends on a red wheelbarrow, and white chickens. On James Bond and Vin Diesel and Julie Delpy. On the rain and garbage truck. On the cat crossing from building to building. On the piece of plastic surfing on the wind between buses.
All these words blanket me, like a nest, protecting me from the elements, from scrutiny, criticism, and intimacy. But I don't want to be known, to anyone nor to the world.
For the longest time, I've known I had the skill for words, writing. I was afraid to write because I had nothing to write about. These past few years, I was forced to use writing as therapy, as self-excavation, as exorcism. I learned I can wield writing, like a kitchen knife.
Cut, dig, carve, drop accidentally, throw: let me tell you stories unlike any other.