I write to escape. To escape from “hello’s.” To escape from deadlines. To escape from unanswered calls. To escape from tired feet. To escape from staplers that won’t staple. To escape from zippers that won’t zip. I write to escape from doors slamming, from pretentious glances, from 99%’s on paper. When all the day’s dark discouragements pile upon me like blocks of cement—I fly away. I fly into a world that I create. Where there are no aching backs but only secretive murders and dark, brooding killers. I go to place where I paint the colors of the sky and dance upon the sliver clouds. I put the tears upon the cheeks of the sadden heart and wipe them away with the flare of my words. I can do anything in my world because it is mine. Nobody can change it. Nobody can disappoint me. I write to escape—to escape to cups of coffee, to glittering stars above a cold, icy world, into arms that hurt for me, into dreams that are long forgotten. I escape to find the toys of past and play with them once again. I escape to find the words of my future and discover what they mean. I write to escape. I write to find me. I write so I can be alive.
