Write What You Know

But that’s just it, you see. What do I know? I always go around and around about that one, like a snake swallowing its tail. Do I really know this? Or do I just think I know it? A shallow surface understanding, just the merest brush with competency, or the deep, visceral, instinctive knowledge that comes only with extended experience. Do I know anything that well? Not my children, not my friends, not my family. Not even myself, not really. You’d be surprised by all the shit that comes out of me. I am.

"I don’t want to." Most days could be summed up with that phrase. I’m a three year old trapped in a thirty-six year old’s body. Ack. I’m lost, I’m numb, I’m scared of everything and nothing. I used to write poetry, but not anymore. I used to feel positively fucking lyrical. In tune with nature, in love with the idea of trees and rocks and the spirits of the wood. When did I get so cynical, jaded, tired? I want to spring out of the bed like DD does. I want to go from unconscious to galloping in ten seconds flat with no effort, no self-awareness. Just the plain joy of being alive.

Write what you know. Shit. How many years you got? Because when you get me rolling, there’s plenty to say.