I dread the idea of beginning, like a heavy hand grasping my throat. My hands freeze, and my thoughts sputter at the inclination of words on paper. I continue that initial moment. There is hesitation. Still, I see no better time to begin and get swept by what may write itself out. At first it’s apart from me, foreign; I’m simply writing for the sake of practice. I ask myself constantly, do I want to do this? Then why do I lack the will to sit back? There is no perfect place. Yet I have rejected every possible space or way to write, morning or evening. “It’s too late to jot down.” “In its passing, it left nothing, except a shallow taste.” When matters of interest or inquiry go on existing without being written down, they rot. I think about those moments I let slip into disappearance, into oblivion. I see now, there is a quarrel I have yet to resolve. Those moments refuse to be dismissed by the lack of writing. Tiny feelings and inquiries come back and ask for revision, and for once, to be finally written down.
Portrait of June 