Below: The God of the Winds Temple in Tulum, Mexico. Attribution: By Martin Falbisoner – Own work, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=48638843
Writing is a treacherous exercise, like an in-law’s linoleum floor transformed into perfect eggshells.
From myriad shelves, a thousand books with two thousand eyes and three raise their brows at me, following each measly letter as it spurts off my fingertips, closed books waiting to laugh in their half-imagined way with pages rustling between hard covers.
From myriad days, a thousand dreams cannonball their white bodies into prisms and pierce out the other side, strained into a rainbow of possible futures, laughing against my paint-splattered carpets, my moth-eaten walls which blush marigold and blue at the suggestions of a million threads of light that will never be caught by my hands – too slow to rein in the pen, I am condemned to a flat future black and white on the page.
From deep in my memory’s dictionary, a thousand citations of failure rage like winds between the bindings, trying to undo me, saying you’ll never make it to letter Z, you’ll never write the end, you’ll never open up to the bright eyes of the future in a reader’s hands. I copy swiftly everything they say, those ghosts of giving up, those perpetrators of no waiting to strike fire to my journals, and I engrave in these journals my very failure to submit to their alluring degradation.