I was drawn to my desk. I was drawn to the light tapping of a keyboard, the welcome sight of pastel quotations, and the telling of a story. I was drawn to enter the premise of a writer’s home, regardless of the writer’s block, the fence that would likely be an impediment in the translation of words. There could be no other explanation for my strange and sudden impulse except for human sadness, human emptiness, and human desire. I have entered reluctantly into a place that I have feared, as if it were a vision of an aftermath, perhaps a dystopian point in history or the remnants of an earthly disaster. To write is a fearsome thing. It could only be the product of chaos and unrest, at the core of a living being. Thus, I write today. I have been summoned to a desk I’ve long forgotten at the perimeter of a chaos-filled room. Here is an assemblage of objects by which my heart has been revealed, and with similar accuracy, to which it’s been disclosed and shattered before knowing eyes.

Today I write a story of memory and emotion. Through the means of this storytelling shall I disclose what these objects have seen and known. Hopefully the chaos inside will be brought to life, and in consequence, brought to light. Hopefully my life will be the slightest bit less unbearable by means of writing a concrete image of my personal sorrows and pains in the monstrous form they take. Every writer, after all, must unleash his inner demons without fear and write fearfully in the words of a dauntless hero. To write is a fearful task; to execute it is to conquer.