Into the Great Big Blue

Or, why it's your responsibility to work on your craft.

It’s two in the morning, and I’m putting out the fire. Denying life, again. In my twenties, I was quick to jump at these feral urges and spend the quiet lilac hours working out what it all meant. Hunter S. Thompson was my warm swinging noose, a poster hung to the wall of my crumbling life tucked away in someone’s garage. I kept a mirror and white lines at the ready in my bedside table and would write long, rambling diatribes about looking for mangos and finding tigers. The sunshine on my face felt like a “fuck you” with a smile. Death was a friend I thought of often. In my thirties, I’ve grown soft, tired. I fight it, and taste disappointment in my morning coffee.

The balance throws me off; two in the morning now feels cursed. Amateur chemists’ creations of unknown and precarious origin are no longer accouterments to the endeavor. There’s always room for emptiness. I’ve stopped the pilgrimage back to who I once was. I’ve stopped burning my house down. I believed I deserved it. I’ve tried on many hats, most of which had the stitching of a broken heart. I’m insufferable when I deny the creative urge.

So here I am at two in the morning, sober as good news on Sunday, writing like I’ll never get the chance again. No birds postpone flying south. They must, and so I must write lest I lose the courage. It’s like forgetting to hit save and having to rewrite my whole story all over again, painting for hours, and waking up to an empty canvas. Time is irrelevant if I want to scratch the itch on the underside of my skull. I am alive, and I will die. Catching falling stars is a duty I’ve denied too often. I have to dedicate myself to something. When the great big blue calls, I’ll dive headfirst, believing it matters.