Why I write

I think in most abstract yet most universal language of all--images. And in those images I preserve all the sentiments that go with it. Writing, to me, seemed most counterintuitive of tasks.

Precisely why I began writing, I cannot now recall. But at some point in my adulthood I learned to transcript my thoughts, dreams and remembrances into words. To each disorganized fragments of images I gave bones and flesh, and in my words each image molded, forever encapsulated in as much beauty and honesty as I could afford to give it. And in so doing, something unexpected happened--I learned to forget. These capsules of images could now be set aside to make room for others. I stopped reminiscing. Now I simply collect, in my vault that has no end.
In remembering we forget, and in forgetting we remember. If I must and it seems that I must, I choose the latter. And that is indeed why I write, of old and new wounds alike.