Wines & Prologues

When my head gets heavy with thoughts—too bold, too big, too wide—overflowing, to the point that even a few hands can’t help hold—I write.

I always go back to writing—fiction, non-fiction; for someone, to someone; for me, to me. I write to escape a world too intense.

I bury my thoughts, my emotions, my voice into every single letter, every sentence, every paragraph—maybe even a whole book.

When my head gets heavy and the tears start to well, I write.

I write until my eyes dry out; pulled into a trance that makes me forget. Oh, and I hope I forget! Even for just a moment.

So, I write—for some relief, for a moment of peace, for something to lull my trembling mind, for pages to wipe my tears away.

Until I’m lost in a labyrinth of words closed off by paragraphs

wanting to be written, to be heard, to be seen.

I write until I can’t find the next word. And the next word. And the next word.

Until I ran out of metaphors, of commas, of semicolons—of emotions.

In case you’re looking for me, find me between word counts and page numbers.

Because I always write.