I’m a narcissist.
I write poems and prose about “shes” and “hers”,
but I am only dotting my Is with my own face.
There’s only so much you can learn
when you focus on one thing.
These immanent apocalypses within ourselves,
these tentative conclusions we come up with,
to reduce infinity,
to give ourselves some purpose –
look I’m using “our” now –
they don’t come from writing about oneself.
They don’t come from writing that much at all.
I found myself in a cafe in Finland.
I had no purpose there,
no real reason for eating sorbet in the morning
by a river that overlooked gorgeous hills and churches.
I’m not a Finn.
I’m not a sorbet enthusiast.
I come from a place that’s as flat as my own writing.
But sitting by those hills, I learned who “she” was.
She didn’t write then.
She didn’t try to make sense of her own self.
She sat and watched the world turn,
then ate some sorbet to celebrate with the personified Life.
If you can’t have a morning coffee and dessert with Life,
can you really be a writer?