I Don ’ t Know How to Write With Consequences
Mominn Nawaz
It snowed here on the 31st of March . I rubbed my arms , a faint reddish tinge seeping into them from when they burnt playing football in the 40 degree heat 8 years ago to the day . I wish I could write again , to make something that people would peruse even if they hated the written word their whole lives . I wanted to create a moment so magical you ’ d rest with the happy question of its existence for all your years , and it would be the one thing no one could take from you . For every time I walked up those rickety wooden steps to that dreaded roof , with my hands shaking as they fumbled with the lighter that had been burning a hole in my pocket for the last 6 months since it had a breath of my fresh air , I wished I could stop saying that it was because I didn ’ t have time . It snowed again on April 1st . I walked up the winding street thinking about the nerve I have to write in first person when Keats and Neruda did so . How as I ducked into a coffee shop I saw the life I led in the roasted coffee beans and the listless chattering of some girls on the table by the window , who wouldn ’ t even know each other ’ s names if they didn ’ t have to . How a man forgot his wallet on the till and a woman tapped him on his shoulder , gave it to him with a smile and that was that . And through the outside glass in the freezing cold , in these stories that unfolded in front of my eyes , I saw my narrative didn ’ t even exist . Those brief moments I chased would somehow become infinitely significant , that maybe she ’ d drop her pen and I ’ d pick it up to give to her and the brushing of our fingers against one another ’ s would be the start of eternity , was simply fiction . I could no longer believe with conviction that there was a star in the sky with my name on it , and I wondered how I could have brought myself to believe that before . And twice in two days the rickety stairs rung in my ears as the roof seemed to laugh at me through the wind , yet every breath I took up there let me believe for just another moment . And I never wrote to be read , but maybe one day you ’ ll realise . When you catch a trace of my perfume or glance towards the dresser I built you or when you find my note one last time and catch your breath when you see the magic we were when it seemed all we could ever breathe was quicksilver , you ’ ll let your guard slip one last time and wonder . Where ’ d it all go away ?