Whenever I hear someone say they hate writing, I can’t help but think about all the times I’ve found myself through it. Those nights where I’d pour my emotions into words and make peace with what I was feeling were liberating. I’ve found writing to be both my passion and my therapy.
Most people think my bookcase is chaos. I don’t organize my books alphabetically, chronologically, or by genre. But there is a system and to me, it somehow makes sense: I arrange my books according to what authors I think would…
Ever since I was a child, I could see the damned at the bottom of the ocean. If you ever preyed upon your fellow human being, if you betrayed the one person whom you promised your loyalty to, if the…
There was a dead moon at the end of the interstate. It sat so low in the sky. From behind houses, buildings and trees it disappeared. On the straightaways it returned. Every slight turn on the road brought it across…
I was only four-years-old when I first met the rug of black sun. My parents came across it somehow and decided to take it home, thinking that it would fill our living room with a sense of intercontinental culture. It…
Heart wakes me. I can feel it bleeding like a sea into some barren place far from me — far, far away from the ash tree. Heart thumps, and I feel like a post, heart beating and beating me into…
A voice cries out in the wilderness, moaning like a doleful ghost up the hilltop from down the slope. My eyes get blocked by clouds of dust, curtains of earth glinting. Bright, white. Heat. There is no smell here but…