When I was in sophomore year of high school, we were asked to write a book about our lives. A book narrating our birth, our stories. A book introducing ourselves to the world.
I remember pouring my soul into that autobiographical project. Being the shameless, self-confessed (oftentimes narcissistic) writer that I was, I wrote paragraphs after paragraphs, convinced to myself that I was writing something important. I saw my life sharply on a smooth, linear, uninterrupted path. I summoned my memories as effortlessly as breathing.