The Curse

I think I've discovered the curse of the writer--or the pretentious lover of words who would dare to assume such a title.

(My life would probably be complete if this were my house.)

This is what I think: the curse is to never be completely present in reality.  It's to be constantly forming sentences, re-arranging adjectives and feeling a thrill over savory comma-pauses in your mind.  It's to be muttering the words back to yourself and tasting the description of what you are experiencing even as you experience it.

I find myself doing this all of the time: inventing summary phrases of my experiences as they take place.  Composing pretty flowing sentences to capture the moments, to save them up for a day when I could adequately understand and describe them again.

Even when alone, the writer does not escape the curse.  Especially not then.

I remember lying in bed one night and thinking: It's amazing how incredibly flawed I am. And there it was, so simply but so accurately put. A post-it note tucked away to address on another day.

There are other things, too. Good things, beautiful things.  The minutest details my mind captures.

 The trailing remark I will allude to from the conversation before the conversation before the last.  You mean you don't remember how that color on that paper reminded you of that band whose hit single is obscurely related to our current project?


The details stick, the sentences form and the memories reassemble.

And I will fall into them again and again.