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Dear Editor

       When you called my name, my head spun against the turn of the Earth. It felt like the lid twisting off of a jar, one full of a potion mixed with sleeping pills. My eyes closed for one moment to shield themselves from the wind, but in that turn was enough wisdom to last me a lifetime. Simply the way you called my name humbled me. In that single moment I couldn’t seem to find the reasons I gave up on my on my future. My body was lifted with a motivation I hadn’t felt in a very long time.

      But then, you were gone again; slipping from my fingers again; tossing my doubts back to me again. I felt as if I had surrendered myself to the machine and was allowing myself to be printed into a gray, dull, keyboard-handed nobody. But even that was too late for me. I was stuck. I had gotten so accustomed to thinking in abstract maybes and what ifs that I forgot about everything concrete. I forgot that there were things that were set in stone and I forgot how to speak in normal, structured sentences. Every word that made its way up my throat wanted to be part of a poem. Every essay I wrote wanted to be a fiction story. And yet, none of my writing was good enough for me.

      My time was running out and I didn’t know where to run, I was too scared to hide. I wanted to stop the spin of the Earth, I wasn’t ready to drink the sleeping pill potion, I wasn’t ready to make a decision, I wasn’t prepared to build answers out of blocks that had already been shaped for me. I stopped worrying about having a hand to hold that would guide me, and started trying to figure out how to hold the hands of clocks so that my deadlines didn’t feel so much like dead ends and I couldn’t forget that we’re all dead in the end. I’m not afraid of death. I’m afraid of what comes after, like, will I have to go through this again? Yet, it almost felt like the best option.

      I didn’t know what the best option was. I just wanted to hear you call my name again, because I needed to know how this story ends. And no, I don’t know how this story ends. Maybe if I could get a grip of time, I would be able to figure it out. But for now, I’m lost in these words. This biography that wants to be poetry, this journal entry that wants to be a fiction story. I don’t know how it ends. With a question? No, with an answer. Maybe I’ll just leave it incomplete, or

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2 Comments

  1. You have such a way of capturing the readers attention such as myself. The skies the limit for you when it comes to your talent. Great job!

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