Sipping on coffee, I contemplate the bunch of contradictions screaming at each other on the paper in front of me. Some tell my stories in more detail than I’d like, while others tell me the stories I’d like to hear instead. Good. It means I’ve written it all down, and now nothing makes sense. I laugh quietly at the mess.
But the work isn’t finished yet. Now I need to group and edit and revise each paragraph until no one can tell what’s real and what’s not. That’s how you write a book. You hide yourself behind your own words, between your own lines, until they catch a glimpse of you, but can never be quite sure. When it’s relatable precisely because of its vagueness, you can rest. Your world is safe from harm, and people will want to read it.
Pulling my cheeks up for a smile, I still can’t stop my heart from bleeding. No, don’t worry about it. It’s been like this for a while, and it’s still working just fine. When it closes off, the stories stop too—so I need to hurry, for I don’t have much time. I only have until my heart heals, and sooner or later, every heart does.
You see, I write with my chest open. That’s right. I dip my pen inside and write about my dearest continents, my heart’s many little homes that make up my world. I don’t use my imagination enough, like a writer should. I write everybody love letters that I twist into stories, and dream of how one day I will become a book in their hands. Will they understand me then? I can already see the first page.
‘As you read this, you’re stepping inside. Welcome. Don’t tiptoe, don’t whisper, don’t close the door behind you. Inside my chest you can be free and loud and reckless. This is how I am, too.’
Of course, I won’t add that the stories are as much about me as they are about them. That I have poured everything I held dear about them into writing so that I could let go. That I loved them with all the fire in my soul, until some turned to ash and were blown away, and some fuelled these characters to keep writing themselves through me.
My biggest inspiration has always been people at their most lovable, when I want to wrap my fingers around theirs and read with my feet entangled to theirs and think of never letting go. And then I let go of them on paper, and my heart bleeds a little as I peel them off, one by one. ‘There you go,’ I say to them when they are nothing else but memories. I say it with love still, but I know the love is peeling off as I speak.
My coffee is cold, and I look around the room. I want to explain myself to everyone. I feel like I owe the world my energy. But I hold back from telling the truth in its purest form. I don’t trust the world to handle me with the care I need. Instead, I mix it with fantasy flakes and serve it hot to anyone who wants to taste it—be they strangers or characters who have run off the paper, mixed with reality sprinkles.
Would you like some?
Anca Dunavete 
Something on your mind?