I’m working on a piece for my memoir writing class. It
involves maps. And oceans, and geology, and forests, and roads, and skin.
You can’t check out oversized books, so I stack them and
open their glossy pages on a big table to look at them all. Spreads: oceans,
longitudes, keys, timelines, tectonic plates moving under leagues of sea. I
want to press my hands into the deep sea floor, my back against the continents’
subterranean walls. Soar over everything, plunge into everything.
Writing this feels like trying to climb a mountain with my
feet bare.
I’m just a human.
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