Kehareb

It had begun like it always did. There were the early stretches of light across the sky and I was there–waiting. In this moment, a requiem in crescendo recalled nostalgic memories. It had begun: the process of pain, devastation, and denial. It was the same in its callousness, but it was different in its depths. These wounds were deeper and heavier. They dragged and writhed into incongruent lines upon my mind. They are reinforced again and again by every thought of you and how I miss you. They are reinforced with every ounce of blood that pulses through my body.

They say the more often you recall a memory the less accurate it becomes. This is the scariest thing to know and hardest thing to avoid. I’ve stored up every memory of you, and every time it’s about to play in my head I stop it and save it for a day I may really need it, because you are art to me. I want to remember as many details of you as I can: the way you laugh and the way you would wrap your arms around me. I have written down our memories so I can try to preserve them as accurate as I can:

It was summer break and I was spending time with her, my aunt. It wasn’t glorious, as a matter of fact it was rather ordinary. We started our summer morning the same we always had: eight-year-old me would help her make breakfast and coffee, then we’d watch one of her favorite movies. We’d both sit there, reciting the lines to the tittle. Words have power. I learned this by watching her cry and laugh by the words delivered through the screen. That’s when I started writing. I wrote in my first journal all my adventures with my favorite person in the world, her. She’s gone now and all I have are these words to try to encompass all of who she was. It started with her–to keep her alive inside my mind and permanent with words to a page.

Now I write to keep alive the feelings, thoughts, and painted sensations that encompass each new encounter I have. I write to bring to life those dead or dying parts within myself or others. Words on a page are like a mirror to the soul, to which I truly believe that our words are inextricable from our personhood. Though gesture and gift can be expressions by which one shows love, for the writer, there is no greater reflection than that of words. I write because I love, I hurt, I fear, and I overcome.

 


 

When the task of writing grows inevitably arduous—and seemingly thankless—we must remember why we started. Inspired by George Orwell’s 1946 essay “Why I Write,” this introspective project highlights our motives for writing. Share your story and join the conversation. Live events are produced throughout the diverse cities of Orange County and feature author readings from curated essay submissions.

  1. Write a 500-word essay explaining why you write.
  2. Submit via Submittable.

The 1888 Podcast Network is a curated collection of educational and entertaining podcasts. Each program is designed to provide a unique platform for industry innovators to share stories about art, literature, music, history, science, or technology.

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