Some things are just too painful to talk about.
But somehow nothing is too painful to write about.
Something about the pen makes everything free game.
Nothing is too sacred,
Nothing is too horrible.
Nothing is too beautiful.
We live certain disasters. We call them by name when we rediscover them with familiarity and infamy.
Because when you return, when you go back to the wreckage and own it,
you find a comfortableness and a stillness,
behind those locked gates in the dark.
You walked that road once. And you learned your way. And you won't make this mistake again.
You hit this point in your 40's when you realize your life isn't in front of you. It's behind you.
We were drinking Stoli and facing the sunset when I discovered just how empowering that realization is. I know what I'm doing. I know where I screwed up. I know how to own this. And I know how to write.
The greatest day was when you saw your unborn children and a thousand dreams. A hundred Christmases to come. When you didn't know what moments lie ahead.
The greatest day is when you see who has never betrayed you, and you've had three or four dozen Christmases you've loved. When you get it. When you know. And everything ahead of you becomes clearer.
We all suffer. It comes down to how you wear it. Like any good disaster there's the hopelessness, and then there's the healing. There's the calling. There's the writing.
It has nothing to do with the hurt or the loss. Or the senselessness. Or the way this wreck has left you broken.
You write because your life wouldn't have it any other way.
You write when you've been gutted.
You write when life needs a rhythm and a ransom.
You write when you're sad.
When you're torn.
When you feel.
When life is not a poem.
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