As we navigate our own paths, taking in new information and learning harsh truths, it’s easy to find yourself in a mental rut, and it’s no secret that learning to be a grown up can be rough.
The bad poetry got me somewhere. It taught me: how not to write.
Every morning I wake up tense, my fists clenched and my arms pressed into my chest. It’s as if I’m braced for impact, like I’m about to crash-land into the day.
The difference between now and then is that reading has presented itself in a different shade. Now, as I read whatever novel I have in hand, I no longer see myself in the story’s universe.
Remember being a kid and having that amazing imagination?
It’s such a simple formula: do one hard thing a day.
Like any good boyfriend, the guy who works at the coffee shop you always go to knows exactly what you want and is eager to give it to you.
Dreams are crazy, absurd, wild, the concoctions of a naive 5 year old who wants to get married in front of monkeys because she thinks monkeys are pretty cool. But knowledge, knowledge wears thick reading lenses and whispers that giant spheres of plasma do not grant wishes. Knowledge demands certainty. And I am certain of nothing.
I was putting my son to bed when he was about 5, and after the bedtime story, right when I was tucking him in and turning out the light, he said “Nipples. I love ’em. What about you?” with this totally serious expression.
These people live in isolation on a farm of misery, growing intolerable crops as they squeeze haterade from their cows’ teats and mix marijuana into bales of hay so they can ride around on their high horses.