You Want to Talk About the Stories I Write


Sometimes little things tip me into euphoria. Sitting at a bus stop at sunset, the warm wind rushing in every direction through my dark hair, over my bared golden skin. When I close my eyes I’m a mermaid. The coins in my hand are seashells. I take dips into the ocean and the rest of the day feels old, as if all the things happened last year. I’m caught in an underwater current. My reality swallows time and it swallows me.

The scent of my soul is the smell of rainforest. The world rains on me and I come into bloom. Freedom is the missing piece of the puzzle. When everyone else is making sense of the chaos, I am the chaos. This is the wilderness. My heart is a jungle and I am every living thing in it. I am infinite in my shapes and sounds and colours, in my thoughts and raw emotions, in my words and actions and ever-changing sense of self.

And you want to talk about the stories – flowing through my veins, slipping through my fingers, coming out of me like torrents of water – I write, as if they were definitions. But in every story I am a different landscape, a different force of nature, a different girl. If you follow the thread that ties us all together, you’ll get lost inside me.

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