Everything I have is borrowed. The words I write every
single day are the wisdom of thousands of years of labour.
Each poem and each verse is born from passion,
from the toil of one person wanting to communicate an
idea. Every person I have seen has stories which all
pull on common elements, secrets that we keep. We watch
each other hang out laundry and wonder what notes the wind
sings, and what notes we sing. We squirrel away pieces of
paper folded over and over. Every day is a repetition of
a never ending line of ink that, when inhaled, sustains
some vital part of us. I write as a substitute to the
naked blue sky. I write to paint it in an indescribable
colour. I write to set fire to the memories that I no
longer wish to keep. I write to wash myself of people
whose very words still make me flinch.