In the mirror, only I exist. Bone covered by muscle, and muscle covered by skin. Yet beneath it all, resides a slow process. The dying of cells, the fracturing of DNA… the steady record, of my decay.

It says not a word, but sits unperturbed.

Hard as a rock, it rests in a relaxed position. In the early mornings, it cools. Waiting patiently for some poor soul to take a seat. Slide out their feet, in an attempt to get comfortable.

They hold all the secrets of the earth, these little manuscripts. Formulas and fictions, fantasies and fallibilities, books have seen it all.

Computers are cold and indifferent. A totality of silicone, transistors, wires, and chips. Powered by electricity, they hold no prejudice. No judgements to speak of. They don’t know that I’m human, can’t see my face; can’t peer into my eyes.

Writing isn’t a gift, but a skill. Something that must be practiced daily, or at least somewhat consistently over time. To be honest, I don’t write every day. Anyone who does is either a maniac or a liar.

I can stare at a shoelace in my mind, tie it, and loose it again. I can move pieces over the chess board, before swiftly forgetting where they were. I can climb a mountain, throw down stones, and freeze them midair with such precision, that I often can’t tell whether or not I’m actually there.

When it comes to self-help and self-improvement, everyone starts off on the treadmill.

After writing several books, this is what I've learned from the journey.

This essay was originally written November 22, 2022 while my sister and I were attending Boise State University for context. I was a freshman, and she was a sophomore. This was our experience as authors (“students”) in the classroom.