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The very impulse to write, I think, springs from an inner chaos crying for order, for meaning, and that meaning must be discovered in the process of writing or the work lies dead as it is finished.
I write because it makes me more sane.
In another life, I’d be able to tell you the truth, tell you everything that you deserve to know. But for now, let me protect you from this ruthless society. Don’t ask me questions. Just take my hand and trust that I will take you away, stash you underneath the safest cove where the world can’t hurt you. Let me nurture your being and shower you with love the only way I know how. Let me show you the world through my eyes. Only then will you know how to stand on your own two feet. Only then will you be able to take on the unbearable truth, and fight it with the strength that I know you will have. For now, just take my hand.
