childlike nostalgia keeps my tank from reaching empty when things get hard. when we’re children, people ask us what do we want to be when we grow up. and the children around me always said they wanted to be firemen, policewomen, astronauts that jump around on the moon defying gravity tethered to a spaceship. but I always held onto this impractical dream, this dream of writing, as if it were a robin that needed nursing back to health. writing came easily to me, nature’s gift to my hands that don’t do much of anything else; i can’t cook a four course meal, i shrink the laundry every other time i do it. all i do (easily) is read and write. when i was in kindergarten and first grade, i ate books like they were breakfast, lunch and dinner. and by the time second grade came (minus the flaming fire of harry potter that blazed upon us children) i knew that i wanted to be a writer (this dream turned into journalism but then i realized my hands weren’t as good at depicting real life as it was at capturing moments in a reality created by myself). a constant stream of verse, poems, and prose find their way into my hands and fingertips, dripping from a pen or becoming words on a bright computer screen. creating constantly firing synapses and the occasional foreign design of ideas. i’m rearranging histories that we’ve known, recreating stories that we’re fond of. and even though it’s not practical. and even though i risk becoming a homeless vagrant wondering the streets trying to hustle. i live to write. childlike nostalgia, don’t fail me now.
