I remember when I lost my desire to write, deprived passageways to wondrous worlds that exist behind my eyes left barren, resting on scorched lips. An infinite cosmos that unravels and listens to the life around it.

To not write meant to not articulate.

When conversations become onerous, the sun becomes meek, and sleep turns into the duality of either an escape or a haunting of untouchable recurrent projections; we tend to retreat into the smallest crevices of who we are.

The worlds go dark, desolate, and cold.

They become filled with light that provides the smallest areas of warmth. Keeping you at the right temperature to stay just above the frigid nights. But your fingers become blue, your hair encapsulated by ice, and you find you’re appreciative of the cycles of freezing and thawing, because that is better than always living in the dark.

My roles were as follows; for joy and amusement, serve a purpose, motivate others to see value and continuously wait to be summoned. To be the best jester, there was not passion behind words, or boldness behind thoughts. As a jester you bow to the kings and their courts, be the most accommodatingly playful one can be, and in return, you’re told you’re their favorite one.

I began writing when I decided I did not want to be favored, a preference or be a choice.

I began writing when I felt the scarlet worlds awake and melt the memories of being told the veracity woven into my words needed to be muted. When the injustices of the world that were put on the innocent silenced me rather than igniting the flames interlaying on my lips.

We can only dance another’s dance for so long. I was not destined to bow, to wish to be a prize or encapsulate the fragment of what one should be.