![]() ![]() That if my mother were alive, I might have come up with the words to make her understand. Once in a great while, I look up at the sky and think that, if my father were alive, maybe he would be proud of me. It has allowed me not only to withstand the losses in my life but to alter those losses - to chip away at my own bewilderment until I find the pattern in it. ![]() It has pushed me to get better, to be better. It has made me think about suffering, randomness, good will, luck, memory responsibility, and kindness, on a daily basis - whether I feel like it or not. It has burned into me a valuable clarity. It has softened my heart and hardened my intellect. ![]() Writing has extended that grasp by pushing me beyond comfort, beyond safety, past my self-perceived limits. Writing has been my window - flung wide open to this magnificent, chaotic existence - my way of interpreting everything within my grasp. Even if my fingers were to clench and wither, even if I were to grow deaf or blind, even if I were unable to move a muscle in my body save for the blink of one eye, I would still write. I will write until the day I die, or until I am robbed of my capacity to reason. ![]() But here is what I would like to put down my fork and say: Yes, yes, I am. “Still writing?" I usually nod and smile, then quickly change the subject. ![]()
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