This is the moment. In the middle of the night. Where you’re in this little bubble. All alone is this little bubble. But it’s not just the bubble and you know it. You know that you’re alone in this moment, in your bubble. Outside of the bubble you’re alone too. Just little bubbles bouncing with each other, through each other, taking some of the bubble and breaking out of it. So many broken bubbles.
It’s here that you draw from. I know that my purpose is what I write. This moment, right now. If I don’t write I die. I don’t know where to go if this doesn’t work.
I am broken. Broken little pieces make me up. My life assembled by pieces, broken pieces, that somehow work and build and breathe and work.
I’m dramatic and I know it. lol
But I think that’s what makes a good writer.
Moments are rooted, and they grow. They can grow and blossom into something beautiful.
I think that’s the point.
Aloneness is a ruthless adversary, but it also works as good fertilizer.
Aloneness and stillness are cousins. Aloneness had a baby and named it lonliness, it cries and cries and cries all night. It’ll cry itself to sleep. And when it’s asleep there’s silence, and lonliness’s mother sits there. Her name is peace.
Writing isn’t just a profession it’s a philosophy.
It’s something to believe in.