At fourteen, I watched the sun rise not as the beginning of a new day, but as a continuation of the night before, an endless monotony.

To Be Still

Somewhere I was still eleven, still spinning in a world of rabbit hearts and howling wolves, where music ran right next to me in the grass.

It’s the last step before leaving my house, the last act required to start the day. I find the right playlist on my phone and click play.

The One That Loves You

I don’t want to leave the busy sun, all the people who see me and still love me, everything in my life that has ever made sound.

As a voice that is there but is not heard—because while all songs have a voice, not all of them require a human manifestation of such.

For years, I wanted to diverge from my heritage, because to do anything else would be to assume the debt of being loved.

Literature, Music, Personal EssayGuestFebruary 7, 2019

But I’ve always been drawn to that which I cannot fully be a part of, so I continue to pretend that I am meant for this space.

VI: Interlude | Uncomposed: "Lexicon"

G for Georgia, O for Oscar, T for Thomas, again O for Oscar. My mother spells out her maiden name on the phone.

But my god, her hands made me want to play the piano again. That’s always how I know I’m fucked, when their hands are something music.

Motherhood feels like it happens between things, between a finite beginnings and endings, to begin and end infinitely.