On Unwriting

Or why writing (often nonsensical) things allows me to think less and live more.

Words keep me moving.

For me, writing is like late breakfasts.
Like swimming in deep water.
Like changes in temperature.
Like staring at the ceiling.
Like the bitter taste people can leave behind.
Like the cold shoulder.
Like pressing the wrong buttons.
Like the unwelcome truth.
Like refusing an offer.
Like sharp teeth.
Like well dressed.
Like exactly sixty seconds.
Like knowing too much.
Like clean sheets.
Like keeping warm.
Like never quite remembering.
It is introductions.
It is disorientation.
It is letting in the light.

I love writing about the things that matter and the ones that mean nothing. I love writing down ideas at 2am in the dark and then trying to actually read them in the morning.

I love that I can never write enough, and that even seconds after drawing a line underneath something, I know I’ll never write those same words again, because I’m already someone entirely different.

How I must break the rules to (almost) convey what I mean.

And how there is never a suitable ending.