“I was so busy I didn’t have time to breathe.”
“Sorry, I’m being pulled in ten different directions right now.”
“It’s so loud I can’t hear my own thoughts.”
Gone are the days when we could attribute our inhumanity to Google Calendars and bustling office buildings. The burden of extreme self-awareness was thrust upon my generation without preparation. We are meeting ourselves for the first time, re-evaluating our relationships, and redefining our identities in an unstable world. We are new people.
We are finally discovering ourselves. In isolation, we do not have to perform the selves we think the world…
“That’s what fiction is for. It’s for getting at the truth when the truth isn’t sufficient for the truth.”–Tim O’Brien, The Things They Carried
Tim O’Brien was the first person to make me consider that a reshaped version of the truth could be more important to tell than the “factual truth.” Art almost always reflects this concept — think of The Book Thief or The Boy in the Striped Pajamas. Although these pieces are both works of historical fiction, they elicit emotional intensity that is appropriate to the severity of the subject at hand. They are certainly important, influential versions…
Writing is untangling one string from my thought knot.
My thoughts snarl, each string disappearing into the mass. None are complete. All are infinite.
With a single, clean, complete thread, I can connect the dots. I can knit a security blanket. I can moor myself to shore when I need to pull myself in.
Hi there! I’m a communications student at Northeastern, and this is my communication outlet. Enjoy!