Writing has always been, for me, an act of celebrating the absence of a logical recourse, or a structure to fall back into, while creating a highly personalized form of controlled chaos. Publishing has been a release mechanism to untether me from the environment of some previous work. The longer the duration between the two, the more difficult it is to contextualize the dynamism that sprouted the work. Every shard of inspiration would have liquefied and folded into a lonely terrarium of molten wastelands, and the author reduced to a mere shadow of a mute dog putrefying in its fetid air, with time having devolved (in its mind) to the distance between a volcano and a seer.

 

To recollect is to encounter ‘this’ time splitting its tongue and lisping in two tones, one furnishing the plastic air of the present sparingly with timestamps and another coloring the story being re-told with fictitious extravagances. These become stand-ins for waterways of conversations that were orphaned midway and deserted anthills riddled with fossilized possibilities.

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Here, you will find me navigating the fever of living and stopping (much later) to lisp in several voices.