I remember the day I set fire to his photo. The photo was black-and-white, his eyes were green, though in the photograph, they were gray. I could hear his teasing laugh, see the way his nose wrinkled when he concentrated just by looking at the picture, but when the corners of the photo paper began to smoke and curl, I felt his memory slowly held less of a grip on me.
Now, I feel this overwhelming desire to destroy my words, to set fire to my novels and my stories, my poems and my manuscripts. To burn them and to forget them, to feel the memory of my words hold less of a grip on me. I can’t let myself do that. I’ve worked so damn hard, and I’m still trying, but it’s so exhausting at times.