Writing Is Hard

Writing is hard, or at least it will be until I stop telling myself that. My brain is running constantly like a busy New York City train station. Complete with the girl who is late for her interview. The other day, a middle-aged pregnant woman stabbed a homeless man for saying the word moist. So, yeah, its busy up there, violent, loud, chaotic. Often a little weird. My brain is the city that never sleeps.

The city can get pretty dark at night. Though, the good thing about cities is that no matter how late and dark it is, there will always be light somewhere. Paintings splattered on the tattered walls of abandoned halls. The call of music from concerts and clubs. Pubs to go and numb the pain. Of course, they’re not all the same. Not all light is a true flame, they’re just playing games. Trading faces. Who can you trust? They say trust your gut, but what happens when my gut just spontaneously combusts. Went nuts trying to figure out when and how to love.

It’s not writing that’s hard. The hard parts trying to see in the dark. Trying to organize or even weave together all the dark into something pretty. Burning my hands grabbing the strands of light and lacing It through the fabric of black I’ve created. Trying to use a pen as a means to an end. Most of the time it doesn’t make sense. But then again, who said it had to?