As much as I miss life, I miss words. Be it mine, be it others. The entangling, the disassembling. Lining up letters, sometimes, forcing them to dance out of their will. Attempting to make sense, struggling to comprehend, paper by paper. Or watching them come to life, under the surface of reflected light. The feeling of accomplishment. The restlessness to begin. The desperation to reach a finish line. Periods after the last period, looking back, knowing they were never yours from the start. The amazement of what was once under the palm of your hand has become distant. Unfamiliar, strange. And the elation of finding a connection, the joy of being linked. The asphyxiation, as your index finger caught between sheets on your laps, marking – as you space out, lost in the inked wisdom. And you hear them, the words, whisper… “This is, indeed, about you.”

At those moments, I know, oh I know, I have lived more hours than I breathed.

— February 22, 2018.