by Anna Pomeroy ’23
I’d dream to write of hopeless romance. You know, something that gives readers hope for love, lust, and wonder. A piece that can appropriately inhabit a colorful and eye-catching visual of a book cover, one that glistens in the glory of being put on display in the front of the bookstore. I’d wish for my writing to be a safe place, where many can use it as a comfort read, a fairytale ending. Yet, my mind can only wander to the dark, and eventually the unknown entity of death. I’m not sure why I am always fixated on death and the reality of the world we live in. In some sort, I could argue I fear death, understandably. But writing about it is not going to give me any answers. If anything, I’ll just fall deeper and deeper into the endless spiral of the black hole called overthinking. Yet, writing isn’t always motivated by a craving for answers, but merely curiosity. While I could follow suit of my poetry and view my writing in the negative aspect of swaying away from any “nice” reads, my writing may also manipulate my narrative in the bold aspect, courageous. Perhaps when I put pen to paper, I choose to unlock a deeper crevice of my brain, one that sometimes people keep shelved away in the basement, and use reading as an escape from life’s troubles. I’m a bold writer. I want to remind people of those thoughts we hope to never discover, to exist in a state of blissful ignorance. And while these truly undesirable thoughts visualized in my poetry may actually bring readers a sense of comfort, I still am the “enemy.” When I go to write, I never lead with the goal of pleasing my readers, but of helping myself visualize my thoughts. I guess it’s kind of selfish. Although my poetry may take a shot into the dark, in hopes of catching the adoration of others, it will always be the book cover collecting dust on the bookshelves in the back of the bookstore, and I am oddly okay with that.