“The realm of fairy-story is wide and deep and high and filled with many things: all manner of beasts and birds are found there; shoreless seas and stars uncounted; beauty that is an enchantment, and an ever-present peril; both joy and sorrow as sharp as swords.”
J.R.R. Tolkien, On Fairy-Stories

Water runs from the tap, floods the crevices of my body. It trickles over an imperfect marring of birthmarks and freckles: fine white hairs visible on my stomach, pale breasts pulled slightly outwards by gravity.

When I was a child, I moved effortlessly half-truths: Arda, Tír Na NÓg, Cittàgazze, Aredante, Charn. I wrote with an abandon that I can scarcely imagine today. I knew the worth of tragedy long before I felt it, because I had read the right stories. I knew  that the last of the Valar faded into Westernesse, that Lyra healed the world’s wounds with a love she could not keep, that  Narnia fell into ash and ruin.

It’s funny what registers as candid. I’ve written about my body, my family, my depression, myself. Writing about writing occurs to me as far more vulnerable.  These are my words, my worlds, my solace. What would it mean to let others in?We are where we come from. I am what I write. My childhood is immortalized in paper and Garamond font.

Droplets  trickle out from margins of flesh. The water drains and there is nothing. No silent forests or canyons of wind, no barren seas or skies frozen with stars. It is 11pm on a Wednesday, 30 degrees outside, my history essay needs writing, I am alive. I wonder if it’s time to start cleaning out my bookshelf.