Writers write, we are sometimes told, to make themselves immortal. Far from now, someone will read these words and think of me. This is true, I think, of some writers. But not of me; I am, after all, immortal, or so close to immortal as to make little difference. Why then, would I write? The truth is, I did not write for quite some time. Not as a girl, nor as a capsuleer.
I write now because these words are not about preserving me in the minds of others. They are about explaining things, about demonstrating things, about preserving thoughts and dreams that I might lose to some future self if I am not attentive to the preservation of these ideas and their meaning. I do not write so that some future people will pause and think of me: I write so that some future me will pause and remember to be who she was. I write so that current readers will see how I view the world and, perhaps, come to view it that way as well.
This, then, is a journal, a speech and a poem. May God bless its words with the power to reveal.
