Virginia Woolf called on all women to write so that they would carve out their rooms out of nothing, 

but “hey Lord, you know, I’m tired” (Labrinth).

Writing is like weaving, hard (stereotypically women’s labour). I cannot force myself to stomach my writing

unless I weave hard enough. Otherwise

it crumbles

and I hate crumbs everywhere.

I hate words for not materialising quite what I wanted to convey.

I hate translating imagination and thoughts all the time.

I hate that they are considered worthless until I carve out words and images for them, and I hate them for being so loud and distracting sometimes.

But “the only thing more powerful than hate is love” (Bad Bunny). So, I love good stories, I love both living the moment and living the moment of photographing the moment. I love memories, evidence of a sort of worthy life, and if poetry is “anecdotal evidence

About the human heart” (Wendy Cope), then I guess I should love poetry too. If all poetry feels embarrassing, then how do you know when it’s good? If all memories of a life are some partially true nothing in a brain, then how do you know when the life is worthy? 

Let me weave, let me live.

Let me be mediocre because sometimes it does not get better than this. Let me write bad poetry, communicate poorly and lock myself in my room for one full day. Let me forget most of what I read yesterday, or what happened three weeks ago. Let me remember my friends’ stories like I remember what I stand for. Let me revisit the photos I take with my mind when moments are too fleeting, too swift. Let me recognise myself in the void combination of everything I could become. Let me love to try more than the poetry itself. 

Poetry is proof that I measure reading by the number of moments I spend feeling and reflecting. 

I hate numbers and time, but I’ll try to cling to love. I love myself even when I feel guilt and hate. I love the mountains so much that I could run away there someday, and I think I might love

this crumble

of a poem.