Letting Go

all at once, without warning, everything seemed to happen. my words reach my throat, except that they are not words but a combination of breakfast and lunch begging to be let out. my mouth is sour, a lemon of a bad experience thrust upon it.

in defense of not writing

From my English classes, I realized that words, at best, are estimations. When you describe a painting to a friend, the words you use will never actually be able to convey the exact sensory experience of the painting. You can say how it disturbed your mind or how beautiful it was, but admit it or …