the explanation is escaping me but my body stops tensing up after the sun goes down. after spending months praying for longer days with sunlight, i’m impolitely asking for darkness like a petulant goth child. i spent the summer equinox staring out an apartment window fantasizing about the pastel blue sky collapsing down into a mosaic of stars, clouds transforming into plasma right before my grateful eyes.

…

maybe it’s because i feel like i can write more freely? then again, when have i ever stuck to a strict schedule for hobbies such as this. i spent most of my adolescence with the head in the ground like a fucking geologist. i was ashamed. what for? really, what for? maybe my memories fail me and that’s why i didn’t write sooner. the desk was too small. the room too compact. the supplies not to my liking. i couldn’t comb over drafts like a vigilant mother tending her daughter’s hair, working out the kinks upon each rewrite. the words wouldn’t even come to me even though my internal monologue spits out descriptions miles a minute—i was raised to always have an opinion. i couldn’t prune that! let alone as a child! i feel like i just got ahold of my tongue, my voice remaining free even with the presence of a critic with a crimson pen meticulously marking my words before i could begin my defense. the critique feels fairer, less pressure, more space.

…

i’m aware i’m motivated by forces that are not my own, that i’m a slave to my subconscious. i’ve become too aware in fact. it’s like that one quote from mating where denoon laments about everything being swamped with narrative. it’s true. every human we encounter has a story to tell us. he asks if anything can be innate. a love for silence does not equate to a miserable childhood. for god’s sake we daydream and it’s narrative! the basis of therapeutic evaluation is to change the story you tell yourself. how were you as a child? no, but really? what was your mother like? we reenact storylines through partners searching for vestiges of the past not yet worked out. we always looking back for answers, a signpost or warning for the future ahead.

…

as i write i realize i ask a lot of questions. i’m not even sure who i’m wanting to answer. the readers says “you… obviously…” and i stare, immobile.