Monday, August 9

>Memoir is a bitter genre—the realm of writers with business unfinished and words unsaid.
>A netherworld, if you will.
>Between the spoken, the written, the thought out and willfully forgotten, lies a liminality.
>This is where we—I?—dwell.
>They say a ghost cannot cross over until the conflict that keeps them here is resolved.
>What if the ghost cannot find the conflict? Worse--what if the conflict doesn't want to be found? What if it will stop at nothing to escape?
>Shades forever dwell in houses, unseen by the occupants; spirits shove you under the bathwater and stuff your throat with bubbles.
>How can a person speak without first spitting out the soap? How can a writer imagine the story of another while drowning in her own salty terror?
>I am unable to do this.
>I am unable to write fiction.
>My life has absorbed my ability to give life.
>I am a closed system.
>I am Uroboros.

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