9/12/13

New piece on Thought Catalog

The cracks in my ceiling are a mountain range, but I’m not sure which one. The dust above is fog, crawling in to obscure the view of stars, made of smaller cracks in the plaster. The smoke detector is just some random UFO, nothing to worry about, nothing to be alarmed about.
On the days I call myself a writer, I invent stories. And like the world living above my bed, I memorize them, add to them, edit them and invest in them. But the dusty world above me has been my greatest material these days, as I fight anxiety when I long to sleep.

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