How do I find myself back here again? Am I searching for something not yet discovered? Am I driven by madness and obsession? Is it an evil demon who forces me to click on endlessly, always beginning anew, always returning here.
I try to imagine how a reader might approach this. Does she look at the text, past messages, maybe even old forgotten versions, the ones that feel most painful and that I have blocked away. Except she forgets and blocks nothing. She remembers, she keeps, she reminds. Always reminding. Day after day, in unique forms, she returns and reminds that the past text still breathes as long as it is a part of her, that no aspect of the project is lost no matter how many edits I make or what I declare final, what goes into binding with a name affixed.
She remembers because readers own as much as writers. Text is their’s as much as mine. I cannot destroy what a reader inspires nor can I tame it, I can only bring words to life that spring not from me nor her, but from somewhere deep, hidden and accessible only to us together, in concert, expressed as confusion, hope and longing.
And so I create, to bury old words with new, content with the fact that I have the courage to bring everything to life and leave no one guessing my intentions or deciphering riddles.