Victoria Chang

I keep walking as if my body were a question that cannot be answered.

Silence has a sound, and I am learning its language.

Each day, I try to paint myself out of the frame, but the world keeps painting me back in.

The past is a room I keep returning to, though I have lost the key.

I am afraid of the world’s edges, but more afraid of its center.

Loneliness is a mirror I cannot turn away from.

Love is a shadow that moves even when I am still.

Grief is the color I use when I have no other paint.

The body remembers what the mind tries to forget.

Every window is both a beginning and an end.

I am learning to sit with the unknown, to let it become a part of me.

Hope is the smallest brushstroke, but sometimes it is enough.