Of Flimsy First Drafts (Part 1)
I am a prodigious writing machine. I can sit down and write stuff for hours on end. I thought that I was never meant to write. That my words will always fall short, will always sound awkward, like a misfit, like a nerd in a disco on a Friday night. I thought that my punctuations were always short of breath, pausing at the wrong stops, always turning at the wrong corner, shifting meanings, misleading thoughts. I never thought I could be this — still uncertain but striving.
But here I am! I am seated erect, pounding the keys perpendicular to me. My thoughts are like the embers of fire, fluid, floating freely in mid-air. I have no respect for my fears. My doubts are at bay. I show up to this moment, bold and unafraid. I am trying my best to not stop from writing, from thinking, from giving form to my thoughts, from giving life to my ideas, from making something. Because I am meant to be this: someone who tries, someone who does not surrender. I am meant to be someone I can trust with my own dreams. I meant to be someone who is as malleable as a prose, as obedient as a child trying to find his way around the city the day he was first allowed to commute by himself.
I write as a person alive to her present. I am a wandering soul. I allow myself to get lost in the words, in the parchment of unlived sentences. I am