Something to Stem the Diminishing (Excerpt)
The following is an excerpt from my short story / essay collection -- Something to Stem the Diminishing. If you're interested in a review copy of the book, you can message me on goodreads or contact me at ghostsofnagasaki AT gmail DOT com.
Thanks!
Something to Stem the Diminishing
The universe is rolling back in on itself. Somehow, the universe, ambitious and apt to slip into speculative bubbles, had gone too far—and then, realizing its mistake, had stopped, debated its condition and realized that it needed to go back. Now it was creeping back into itself. Inch by inch, it was excruciating. There was nothing easy about this diminishing. The expansion had been easy. But now the folding back in on itself part would be a painful ordeal.
In the midst of all of this, I am certain of only one thing—it is difficult to write a feeling. In fact, it’s the hardest thing to do. To turn a lump of sensations and happenings into a narrative whose coherence flips the world and exposes its underside is no easy thing to do at any age. In reality, things are never so clear as they appear at the end of a story, and the reality of that summer day in 2008, when I was 26, is that there is no story—not yet—just that feeling. The feeling that the world was trying to become more manageable, and that horrible things were occurring in order to accomplish this.
Thanks!
Something to Stem the Diminishing
The universe is rolling back in on itself. Somehow, the universe, ambitious and apt to slip into speculative bubbles, had gone too far—and then, realizing its mistake, had stopped, debated its condition and realized that it needed to go back. Now it was creeping back into itself. Inch by inch, it was excruciating. There was nothing easy about this diminishing. The expansion had been easy. But now the folding back in on itself part would be a painful ordeal.
In the midst of all of this, I am certain of only one thing—it is difficult to write a feeling. In fact, it’s the hardest thing to do. To turn a lump of sensations and happenings into a narrative whose coherence flips the world and exposes its underside is no easy thing to do at any age. In reality, things are never so clear as they appear at the end of a story, and the reality of that summer day in 2008, when I was 26, is that there is no story—not yet—just that feeling. The feeling that the world was trying to become more manageable, and that horrible things were occurring in order to accomplish this.
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