I write lists of adjectives in an attempt to describe the color of the wood of the kitchen table when the afternoon sun hits it just before dinner. I write word after word, noun after noun. I write letters on pages, filling more notebooks than anyone has hopes of ever fully reading. I write because I cannot articulate the world through any other means. I write because my tongue does not have fingers with which I could describe the tilt of a woman’s chin when she is bent over an oil painting. I write phrases and idioms and clichés across the whiteboards of my classrooms, trying to make sense of how a scribble in black ink could carry such meaning. I write poems about the way the sand feels between my teeth when I swallow seawater accidently at the beach. I write because though the grains of sand may be stuck in my gums no one else can see them. I write to bring the invisible into the visible. I write when I cannot see. I write when I can see too much.
Inspired by Terry Tempest William‘s Essay “Why I Write.”