Member-only story
a hit
Bukowski said he didn’t write for ten years because he was out living.
living is what we do.
living is the messy part of our lives
it’s the part that bloodies our hearts
and defines our souls.
it’s fighting with yourself, calculating self-employment tax, ignoring calls from that sibling you don’t have the energy for, hatching a scheme to stick your stiletto in your neighbor’s stupid, energy-sucking, noise-polluting holiday blow-up snowman.
living is how we write
it becomes who we are
how
we are.
we wear it all the time
and most of the time
we don’t know we have it on.
maybe you didn’t write today
it’s highly probable you won’t write tomorrow
but then again, you never know.
then along comes that one day
when you wake up
after having a dream
you can’t remember
and run to the laptop
naked body shivering in the newly minted winter,
tripping over your dog’s toys
she left out during the night
when she thought that all that tossing and turning
might mean you were getting up
for a midnight game of fetch.
