The Roughest Draft

by Emily Wibberley

I’ve had to remember the quiet joys of my ordinary existence, and in doing so, I’ve had to forget. Forget how my dreams hit me with devastating impact, forget how horrible I felt coming close to what I’d once wanted.

insecurity is never far from reach when you’re being judged on pieces of your soul.

was it romantic when you instinctively knew someone’s very existence fascinated you, made you grateful? Finding it romantic would be missing the point, like valuing the sun because it was bright. I’m glad for the light, but really, I’m grateful for the fact it sustains life on Earth.

Over the past four years, the moments Katrina’s existence has intruded on mine have felt like interludes. They’re lost days. I write, of course, but the content is functional, unenthusiastic, the prose equivalent of ground beef. Because every word wasn’t written out of passion or intent but out of resistance. Resistance to the terrible gravity of the question I don’t want to contemplate—whether Katrina was my real life, and everything else the interlude.

“Forever is about reaching into the future, into years far away and unknowable. ‘Always’ is about every second of every day. It’s as far-reaching as ‘forever,’ it just starts sooner.”

I have so much practice wanting and not wanting at once.

“The more I talked to you, I felt something I never had. It was like you could articulate every thought of mine I didn’t know how to. Like you were bringing my own self into sharper focus.” She smiles self-consciously. “I don’t know if that makes sense.”

It’s funny how people can sit side by side, separate whirlwinds each self-contained.

Writing is where our—where everyone’s—purest truths lie. On the page, thoughts and feelings can be expressed without interference, without ineloquences or fear or fumbling. There’s no room for turning back or losing your nerve. Only one thing remains—what you want to communicate.

For years, I was trying so hard to want only the things I thought were safe enough to have. But it wasn’t wanting, I’ve realized. It was hiding. Hiding from myself, from what my heart craved so desperately it terrified me.