It doesn’t always have to be a story. What should I write about? If I have to ask that question am I even a writer? Does it even matter when my wife is in the next room struggling to get our three year old to sleep.
So much uncertainty. Worry. Like swallowing a whole shelled walnut. No water in sight.
Everything feels imperfect. Moments of happiness bookended by dread and fear and rage.
Teeth red wine stained and chipping. Hair line cracks seeping up into my brain.
Almost over the hill and bob sledding on a single rusted skate all the way back down towards death.
Love. And yet there you are. Always pushing your annoying face back through the crack in the door. Nicholsoning regardless of how inept and alone we feel. Teethy grin. Demented. Because love is demented. Persistent. It’s the only way to survive all the absolute mayhem.
Love that last hug before someone is gone forever. Love is rubbing the lotion into a crusted piece of skin at the corner of a thumb nail while a mother wastes away from fucking cancer.
Love is the worst night of sleep you can imagine and seeing your child sleeping on a pillow and all you can think about is you would do anything for them. Eat snakes. Drink fire. Kill. Endure.
Love is everything we want to be but continually fail at. Love is insanity. Trying again and again and again.
Love is feeling whole and like you’re going to burst into flames all at the same time.
Love is dealing with what’s fucked up and never regretting it. Can’t possibly imagine life before.
Love is love is love is.
