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Why I Write

I wrote the following for a creative non-fiction in April 2009:

Outside my bedroom at home, city lights shine around the Bay, glowing in the distance. They seem tranquil and drowsy but, if I could write myself a telescope, I would see someone breathing their first breath, someone breathing their last and two falling in love. The same moments can be seen from the Piazza Michelangelo above Florence and the bluffs overlooking Takud Jantung in southern Bali. The same moments unfold in the web of lights under my plane as I fly across country and under Predator drones above Afghanistan, before and after they drop their payloads.

Because the lights keep me awake.

Because I cried when my parents told me I would have another brother.

Because my grandfather received a 21-gun salute on a cold New Hampshire morning before we laid him to rest.

Because I’ve seen gold shining in sky-blue eyes.

Because we all breathe the same air, sometimes quickly, sometimes slowly.

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