I crave what I cannot explain and what I cannot see, but that if I saw I would steal and run and hold high above my head. High like a captured flag. This ache within, like a swallowed tooth, this longing above, refusing to fall into view—a rumour racing ahead of me holding high a flag I cannot see.

I write to make sense out of what I’m looking at and piece it together with how I feel. And because I have found no inherent self, I write to find a self worth having. As it seems, my self finds substance only in contributing to something beyond myself.