I don't remember when I stopped being able to express myself through writing. It might have been around the time I started to journal every event of my day meticulously to combat potential memory loss. I think it sucks the marrow out of words for me, leaving them hollow and porous. Whatever happened or did not happened, it is a talent I can no longer boast.

I have to take my life in pieces. Little clips, reminders on post-it notes, twine around fingers. They remind me to keep moving forward when I feel as if I can't. Lightening can strike the same place twice if it contradicts myths.

And you sir, are exactly that: some kind of mythical little contradiction whose voice couldn't escape even the tallest of windows.