I write to survive.

I write because you and I both know the shadows are coming. I write because I’m afraid of being alone. I write because I know you’re afraid, too. I write to find us a place to belong, a place where we can speak our truth without fear. I write to call out, to cry out. Even when no one is listening, even when we aren’t believed. I write to comfort you when words are little comfort. I write hoping my words can be salve on your scars. And your scars are many. I write my mistakes so you won’t repeat them. I write to braid together the loose strands of our past, to knit a sweater for the coming winter. I write to fill in the gaps. I write in the cracks of winter and the embers of fall. I write to phoenix the ashes. To make glory out of dust. I write to keep warm. I write because after winter, the ice will melt and the seas will rise. I write as a practice in hope. Or faith. Or delusion. I write to put something, anything, in this plastic container, hoping it will keep the words dry for someone else’s future. I write against the use of plastic. I write against waste and against destruction and against foolishness, while inking the hearts of dead trees. I write knowing that destruction is quantifiable and that writing is not quite the same thing as putting out fires or stopping dams or blowing up a life raft and saving the children first. It’s more like building a house on stilts. It’s like carving a cave out of rock. I write because words are a different kind of power. I write because to make a better world we need to first imagine a better world. I write to keep track of our footprints. I write because we’re all just preparing for the apocalypse. I write to have something to read. I write to record our stories in stone. I write so I won’t have to say goodbye. I write because the books made me. I write because telling stories is the only way I know how to be alive.