On Beginnings
Writers fascinate me endlessly. They are wizards, the way they twist their fingers and weave words into gentle wisps and curves, fragrant and soft. The way they roll off tongues and float in the air, linger a while before they leave. The art never quite came to me. All I have been able to create are rickety, bent bones joined awkwardly with tape and tied with paper. Their meanings fragile to touch. Pretentious. Abstract, unintentionally so. And yet, as terrible as I may be at writing, for the longest time it felt like it was the only thing my mind was good at. Words would flow from my fingers at every sharp bend in the road. Out, out, out, till all that remained on their way was washed clean. Words had become my friends. Life took a turn, however, and I found myself engaged to the art of saving lives. It is an expensive craft to master; demanding all my heart, all my soul, all my body. I gladly paid the price, and gave away the words I had held on to so tightly. Latel...