On Writing, a Passage — by Alex Ranieri

Why do we document, as assiduously as ants collect grains of sugar, every passing thought, every glimpse of unfurling leaf? Why do we flee from the scene where we have acted an emotive part, muttering, “I must write this down”? Some would scornfully cast aside the written word as merely pressing vibrant life into a pocket-sized dream, a conveniently proportioned shadow; but I prefer to think of rose petals that are pressed, and wrung for their essential oils, whose more potent scent will call up before our eyes the garden’s evening flourish, long after all its flowers are dead.