The problem with the narratives inside my head is that they are not logical or well considered. They are not the way stories should unfold, and this is what makes me afraid. The people inside my head are not real. They don't have names and they aren't completely drawn together. But what keeps them alive is that they have the rhythm of a story stitched inside them like vital organs, all moving together in an ancient dance. The people in my head walk with each other and haunt me in the daytime. Do you know what is like to hold a secret inside of you that you can't tell no one? It drives you to become mad. You itch and claw into the deepest recesses of your waking memory to find the words. But you can't find the right thing to say. You are perpetually afraid that you won't do these people's stories justice. And every night it is as though they all stand in the middle of your room and breath in all thrust a pen into your hands. You make desperate scrapes on paper to save yourself from drowning in the oceans of people you harbor. And do you know why I write? I write because if I don't do it, I am not certain that I will live the next day. I wrote because I am helpless at doing anything else. Words are the only thing that my hands understand. And when everything is taken away from me, they are all that I will have.The problem with the narratives inside my head is that they are not logical or well considered. They are not the way stories should unfold, and this is what makes me afraid. The people inside my head are not real. They don't have names and they aren't completely drawn together. But what keeps them alive is that they have the rhythm of a story stitched inside them like vital organs, all moving together in an ancient dance. The people in my head walk with each other and haunt me in the daytime. Do you know what is like to hold a secret inside of you that you can't tell no one? It drives you to become mad. You itch and claw into the deepest recesses of your waking memory to find the words. But you can't find the right thing to say. You are perpetually afraid that you won't do these people's stories justice. And every night it is as though they all stand in the middle of your room and breath in all thrust a pen into your hands. You make desperate scrapes on paper to save yourself from drowning in the oceans of people you harbor. And do you know why I write? I write because if I don't do it, I am not certain that I will live the next day. I wrote because I am helpless at doing anything else. Words are the only thing that my hands understand. And when everything is taken away from me, they are all that I will have.
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