I wrote a bad poem,
O Electric Snowman
It was me, trying to imagine another's life
Because it was hard to imagine my own.

To tell the truth is hard
Not because finding words is hard
Finding words is like searching for life in the sea
Nor because the truth is hidden
The truth is on the surface, obscured by certainty
It is hard because imagining is hard.
Imagining begins with surrender—to what is.