i stopped reading when my grandfather died. it wasn't a conscious decision. i remember bringing the girl with curious hair with me to the philippines, and i remember reading an invisible sign of my own shortly after, but i don't remember what i read after that, because i read nothing. i put the books on the shelf and haven't picked them up since.
words didn't lose their meaning; they just got harder to spit out and swallow.
not many people know this, but the day i moved out of my place i broke down. i got back from vegas at 7am, groggily walking around my almost empty apartment not knowing quite what to do. my friends weren't coming 'til noon to help me move, so i decided to call my mom, who was still at my grandparent's house. it's so vivid. i sat on the floor in the corner of my bedroom, leaning against the pile of pillows and blankets, listening to her tell me about the funeral, which was just the day before. her voice was calm. i didn't know how my mom could muster calm, and instead of it being something soothing, it just made me panic. i started to cry. tears crawled down my cheek, slowly at first, and then faster, tumbling onto my lips, my chin, the receiver, my shirt. i wiped my eyes on the pillow until there was a dark spot on the cloth. i got up from the floor and paced from empty room to empty room. there was so much space, but nowhere to go.
why am i writing this now that it's all over?
maybe because i am sick of talking about traffic and the weather. maybe to prove that i can still write and feel what is real and true. maybe to pinch and wake myself up from this slumber i feel like i've been in.
"i am not a sad person, really i'm not," i told the crowd at the open mic last night, after reading a few melancholy pieces i'd recently written. they laughed, as i hoped they would, and i sat back down, waiting for the nervous shudders to leave my body.
"we know you're not," ed said, taking back the mic.
it worries me, sometimes, because i never wanted to be that girl, sulking in the corner for no good reason at all. it seems like such a waste.
and tonight, something awoke inside me. i don't want to make it sound larger than it is. it could very well be my imagination talking, but it is something, and it is something good. it is what made me want to be a writer in the first place and what keeps me from getting rid of this website each time i'm at a loss for words. it's the world, a ball of yarn, waiting to unravel. a story, a million stories, waiting to be told. and me, my fingers, my shaking, trembling fingers, typing so fast like they don't know what else to do with themselves.