i want to write. i want things to make sense again. i’ve been thinking about the role writing used to play in my life, back when i used to write voraciously, back when it was all i ever did and the only thing i knew how to do. the only thing i had. the role it played was this: the act of writing, of contextualizing my thoughts and feelings and experiences, made things fall into place. made them neater, delineated them. without tangible proof of my thoughts, they float and disappear; i cannot name my feelings, cannot form a coherent string of thoughts that is meaningful in any way. i am less me when i don’t write. my inner life a dull gray.