Today Mikaela asked me if I’d ever prayed for anything. I forgot about the multiple times I’d asked god to make me a writer. And then all these fucked up things happened, decades happened in months. Trauma laid upon itself. And the reality is that my mind cannot comprehend truly the magnitude of what I lost or the injustice that wrecked me, and the enormity silenced me. I feel mute.
I pray that I may find the words I need.
I am going to write every fucking day even if I have nothing to say. Sertraline sure does dam up my creative rivers, though not the river outside the window, nor the River asleep in the next room.
Our fairytale began subsumed, occupied. A stolen narrative. I could tell it here, albeit modified to preserve privacy.
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The first time I saw him, He opened the door to Her little cabin, where I was watching Their son. I remember the bookshelf contents; divine union and soulmate this, and ecstatic sex for the conscious whatever-the-fuck, and I assumed, wrongly, that A. he was happily in ecstatic union or B. if he wasn’t ecstatic, he was basically married. Also, he was thirty five and a father.
Of course, these were just thoughts in my mind. I said hello to Him and left.
He was in my near and far periphery for the next five years. I had a baby. I went to college. I left my ex, finally. I dropped out of college. I invited Him to my walkout basement apartment in small town BC on a July weekend, 2014.
…
Hey there,
Just checking to see it this works. The internet is a monstrosity in 2023.
Hm?
A list of everything I want to write about but know I won’t.
the wealth gap. Money culture for poor people. Intergenerational wealth; the origin tree. Celeste. The love story.