I write as though I were there now, as though I could experience it again. I try to grasp each of the seconds that made up that time, believing I can thread them together with these fragile symbols. The feelings return so clearly when I write that I don’t doubt the faithfulness of my memories, my fabrications. I try to capture that present, that now, but it blurs with every word drawn, every time I use this insufficient language. Because I’m in this present, which will always become the past, barren words on a stained page.
