I’ve been writing my own history, my weak attempt not to forget, to try to form a wormhole to the past, to get back to all that I’ve lost, but I fear the more I write about it the more I destroy it, the essence of it. I find my descriptions have not served my memory at all. If anything, my inadequacies as a storyteller are hastening the end, proving how far out of my hands my life has fallen. Writing it down has been like trying to capture the colors and flavors of a dream upon waking. The meaning and the body of it fade away.
