My memories are stacked cheek by jowl in the back of my mind. All of the interesting places I’ve been, all of the different lives I’ve seen, all of the cultures I’ve learned about, smells, tastes, music, smiles, ideologies.
The different expressions I’ve seen and danced, the embraces, the kisses, the hardships and luxuries have all been laid in an impenetrable wall, built with the precision of the megaliths created by ancient stonemasons that have modern archaeologists and engineers scratching their heads.
Until now, I haven’t been able to slip a piece of tissue between these blocks to describe to another what any of it is like, but almost a year and a half of studying writing, I’ve managed to find a chink to get my finger into.
It’s just the first knuckle, but I can use it to begin to chip away at the blocks of my experience, to release some dust to sprinkle over my words. I can use one or more of the tools I’ve been given by my studies to dig into the birthright of my history.
Sarah Bonnar 