It should be like talking, but it isn’t at all. If I could conjure up all of the anecdotal language I think of long enough to put onto paper, I’d have a novel by now. But I don’t and I seem to care less and less about any of it; the writing takes too long, the researching only happens on the internet at night when my parents are sleeping. My job doesn’t pay enough and there is a perpetual feeling that it never will, and that one day, on top of all my yearning for action, for an ounce of freedom to stamp my feet where others have stamped before me, I’ll have begun to transfigure into dust. I suppose it’s not so bad, now considering that everyone will turn to that carbon-ous ash: C. The first letter of my name, as well as for one of the women I have pleasured in bed. At least it seemed that way to me then. And with the way my thoughts are progressing, I am only spending my final drowsy hours of March 30, 2011 spelling out nonsensical memories. But what if memories could be made into fabric, like the quilt blanket. What a beautiful idea, if there be any, to capture those unique moments in a person’s life, then to stitch them in a fabric and wrap it around your body while you sleep at night. Some people will go to any length to preserve their memory. It’s what defines them, I suppose.
