Would you die if you did not write? Would you brawl, scrawl obscenities on subway walls, would you stink up the room? What would you tell yourself every Sunday when the clothes tumbled out of the dryer that you briefly believed life was good, that making gardens and meals with herbs was good, that driving up to the window at McDonalds and ordering a Blizzard was good. How can possibly live your shitty life, your wonderful life, your tiny notations in a foreign hand. Writers are like you and me: they fight for mother’s silver, they get new tires, they cancel their subscription to Vanity Fair. I felt that way when I was young. Those absurd poems were like a long stick that pulled me from the center of the lake to a wobbly raft. Of course, you hold on. Of course you cover your body. Those notebooks you carried with everywhere and the words that filled them. They way you set yourself apart, above. Sitting at a counter as if you were alone, as if the little show fooled anyone. And when you quit? You didn’t die. DIdn’t dig your own grave. Taps wasn’t heard. The sky didn’t turn purple. The yellow fields didn’t turn to gold.
Did you ever stop writing?
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