Each of us inherits the past and we have to choose what to do with it. Some of us ignore it and some of us are motivated by it. Some of us wield the weight of history as a weapon. Others paint it into still lifes, each brushstroke a desire for revelation.

I wish to be remade.

History is an infinite ribbon of peel and it keeps unravelling, even after the groves are razed, the gods are dead, the villages are abandoned, and the books are written.

Metaphor exists because we need stories to make the terror of being alive tolerable; because sometimes we don’t have the heart to stare at it straight on, to pull it from the shadows and expose all its facets to the light.

As a child I thought loving two places—embodying two places in one body—meant dividing yourself. Now, I know that the act of loving multiplies the heart; it does not segment it.

When a myth branches, a single story is free to grow towards various meanings.

If the world were fair, destruction and creation would take the same effort. It is far too easy to destroy something. A red strike through a sentence. A flame through a forest. A fist through a flower’s roots. What took life a hundred years to create could be felled in mere minutes.