Sometimes, when I look down at the seeds that I scatter in the black dirt, it reminds me of the nights when I imagined that I could fly. The darkness behind me doesn't worry me; neither does the stars ahead. I think perhaps the best way to fly would be with hands full of earth so you always remember where you come from, how hard walking could sometimes be.
And I look at my hands, too, which move in the shape of my inventions, my own words. It is hard to, and I am not good at it. My words never last long, I have to destroy them before anyone sees them.
But I remember them all. For some reason, the act of writing them down makes me remember. Each word I write brings me closer to finding the right one.