Entry

Less and less am I interested in having my photo taken. I want to be ignorant to the passing of time. People don’t need to know what I look like—only that when the sun rises, I feel its warmth. I like to talk. I like to listen. I like to watch people’s hands. Their bodies speak a language I don’t understand, but I watch anyway. Folding, fitting, flitting—penning the page with loving chicken scratch.

I am becoming a library. A house for words, things, people, and places. I descend into my particularity the way a root splits and spills into a fine array of itself. Myself, individuated: far from anomaly. To think I’m unique in this is a lonely, selfish thought. Somewhere across the sea, there is someone with hands unlike mine dreaming of the same things.

I want to be remembered through my fingerprints.