Writing is such terrible bliss. Rising to write is like facing a brain scan each dawn, a heart scan each noon, and a soul scan each midnight. Everyone else is living while we are writing about a life once lived or never lived, imagined to be lived or hoped to be lived. The clear fact here is that we live to write, and we miss living…. to write. If we are good enough, our art, we will be more cherished in death than in life.
We scream out all of our secrets before we realize that they are unspeakable. We are brutal self-loathers and sullen egomaniacs. We are greedy and pensive voyeurs. We are impossible to love and impossible not to love. We are tender lovers and tragic sinners. We are sincere tricksters. We vomit to eat more. We are tortured and maimed at our own hands, we fly without wings, and we bury our dead with dry eyes. When we are uninspired, we are rendered impotent, when we are inspired, we are mad, when we stop musing, we will be dead, there is no winning, there are oceans of words and most of us cannot swim.