I used to fear oblivion. But I became a writer.

Things that don’t make sense don’t make sense. There are spiralled stairways in my mind that I somehow do not know how to climb. There are cats running up and down my hallways and I don’t even like cats. There is a Gita woman singing softly in the background of my heart and I think I may have put her there sometime this year. Possibly the day my grandmother held her breath for eternity.

I know the answers to questions my mother used to ask. I have questions my mother failed to answer. Like, “does chilli bring people back to life?”. I believe the universe may have answered this question. I probably was not listening. I most likely had that boy with the terrible gap tooth in between my legs. Or maybe it was that girl with the beautiful breasts and a birth mark in the shape of the cross that preached to me about life and death in the middle of our love making. As is expected, she did not save me.

There are things about death that I wish someone would have told me about before I died. Like the emptiness. I used to fear oblivion once. But I became a writer.


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