All around too many dramas…

1 Minute Read Time

An open notebook with writing and an uncapped ink pen
Photo by Aaron Burden on Unsplash

All around, too many dramas that I had to keep to myself, far, far too much silence. As if, in revealing human misery I’d risk being devoured, ripped wide open in the public square, voracious beasts snuffing through my entrails. And yet, to write begins with the shame of a sordid death, always one’s own, as the left hand, at first hesitant, grabs onto a truth, breaking away from its childhood body, from that opaque blankness that envelops memory.

Writing begins with a betrayal.

Read more from Issue 15.1.

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