July 22, 2017
You wouldn’t believe the number of plots and notes and songs and free-verse poems I’ve written about the same story. The exact same story.
Just by remembering fragments of it here and there, still seeing the vivid images in my mind from that day, I can always find a new way to tell it. I have dreams about it, I think about it so much.
I write about that day, almost exactly as it happened. I write about my thoughts going on that day, after that day, my thoughts that led up to that day. I write about what happened after that day, what could’ve happened after that day, what could happen after that day. All the different scenarios, layouts of the same plot. All the ways that could possibly explain that day. Everything that could and couldn’t happen for me to simply relive that day. Every quest I’d undertake to slow time, to tell the future, to go back in time. Every wish I made come true or not regarding that day.
I can’t say I’ve ever dedicated so much to anything in my life or in the lives of me in the stories and poems. I can’t attribute anything else to my success greater than that day. Nothing has made me so determined to pummel through all the pain and adversity along the way.
And honestly, I don’t know if it’s a good or bad thing to have in my life.