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There are somethings I just can't write about anymore. Because when you write it down, it will never be a mere passing thought. It makes the fleeting permanent and the auric tangible. It's there; it's real, and you can't take it back.

If I refuse to write it down then maybe it could still pass. That feeling, that thought, it can be ignored in your mind and crowded out by other tasks. But write it down in an old brown journal, or type it in a little blog window, and you can never deny its existence, no matter how much you change, or no matter how much you want to.

It's cleaner if you just never write it down.

He, on the other hand, could only wish to make everything that much more real. He grabbed as many pieces of everyday as he could and threw them into the shapes he wished to remember for the years to come. And he cemented it right here, making sure nobody would ever forget it. This time last year, I wondered if he would ever commit me in ink to the book of his own history. Now, I am spending my remaining days on the opening pages of a new chapter. And that, of course, makes me real.