I have been trying to write about the kind of book I want to write. I want to write about a certain type of girl. She has such high hopes from me that everything I try to pen down about who she is, seems like a lyric disappointment. I have waited too long to bring her back to life through my words, in the naive assumption that some day the black mantle of silence around her entire being would lift of its own.
She requested me, you know, after the systematic disintegration of her thoughts; the slow disempowerment of her perception.
I have no choice; I hope you will bear with the limitations of my language.
I know that she wants to write stories about the hardest things she's re-learning to say, leaf by scattered leaf. She sits down in a chair that faces the sun. But it's the time of the year when the sun still feels too cold, and she clicks her tongue at the passing day; disapproving even while a funeral pyre burns in her mind. I know she's a sad girl and I want to give her a story that fills her wheelbarrow with all the joys a girl her age ought to have known. She grew up faster than I intended her to.
It's the 13th of the month; (it takes a while to persuade her from her moods) and she feels brave this particular Monday morning. Brave enough to let me welcome you, my make-believe reader, to her empty estate. The call of the void; pick any seat in the shadows and they will whisper to you their histories.
In the daylight, she is an echo of a long forgotten memory. She is more blue than orange, she speaks in season. But on afternoons like these, when everyone else prefers to stay indoors, I let her conquer the narrow streets. On days like these, I let the poor child howl.
She requested me, you know, after the systematic disintegration of her thoughts; the slow disempowerment of her perception.
I have no choice; I hope you will bear with the limitations of my language.
I know that she wants to write stories about the hardest things she's re-learning to say, leaf by scattered leaf. She sits down in a chair that faces the sun. But it's the time of the year when the sun still feels too cold, and she clicks her tongue at the passing day; disapproving even while a funeral pyre burns in her mind. I know she's a sad girl and I want to give her a story that fills her wheelbarrow with all the joys a girl her age ought to have known. She grew up faster than I intended her to.
It's the 13th of the month; (it takes a while to persuade her from her moods) and she feels brave this particular Monday morning. Brave enough to let me welcome you, my make-believe reader, to her empty estate. The call of the void; pick any seat in the shadows and they will whisper to you their histories.
In the daylight, she is an echo of a long forgotten memory. She is more blue than orange, she speaks in season. But on afternoons like these, when everyone else prefers to stay indoors, I let her conquer the narrow streets. On days like these, I let the poor child howl.
