You never have to change anything you got up in the middle of the night to write.

Prompt: Brilliant

Because that’s what all of this is, right? Bloody brilliant.

I didn’t get up in the middle of the night to write any of this; rather, I’m sitting cross-legged on my couch with my laptop balancing on my knees.  It’s uncomfortable enough to be considering “stretching” and precarious enough to resemble a yoga pose of sorts.  Multi-tasking, you see, is one of my many talents.  I can even type this sentence with one hand while sipping from my not-warm-enough coffee.

But why is this millennial not at work at 9:37 AM on a Tuesday?

Because I wanted to do something scandalous.  (To be fair, I’ve been doing this type of thing for several months now.)  Please hold all your gasps until the end:

  1. I got married at 21 without any intention of having children soon.
  2. I moved into an apartment on the side of town where I am the racial minority.
  3. I got a tattoo of a Celtic symbol above my elbow which – quite easily, actually – can be seen by conservative family members from both sides.
  4. I chopped my hair and got thick fringe bangs so that I don’t have to wax my eyebrows or put makeup on my forehead.
  5. I quit a corporate job with health benefits and a decent pay because I wasn’t happy with the environment and I wasn’t becoming the person I wanted to be.  Instead, I’m currently a writer and a tutor.
  6. I’m skipping a Master’s program to go straight to a PhD in Cell Molecular Biology (which is a predominantly male field, might I add) and I’m “just” going to teach.  Ya know, because what better waste of a PhD than going to teach undergraduate classes?

And just for kicks and giggles, my husband and I are moving at the end of our lease because management here still hasn’t fixed a broken pipe in our bathroom after 3 weeks of emailing videos of the water streaming from the ceiling into our shower.

The most brilliant thing of all?

My decisions had nothing to do with any of you.  Well, most of you at least.

Some of these choices were made solely by me, and others were split between myself and my gem of a husband.  We decided to become the best type of human beings that we can, to excel in our gifts and abilities, to welcome all people into our tiny home (please excuse the mess in the bathroom), to reflect the light that we find in this life.  We are just trying to truly live, develop into the fullness of ourselves, and slip into our created being like a silk robe.

So yes, darling.  You can judge me and my choices, my lifestyle, my priorities.  I’ll smile gently and send you on your way with a wave of my hand, my watch – a present when my phone was stolen and I purposely lived without one for several weeks – glinting in the light.

Because my life, with all it’s chips and flaws, is brilliant.

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Writing is easy – just sit at a keyboard and bleed.

“Your writing is wonderful.” She paused, drenching her next words in pity, bitterness, and familiarity.

“The inside of your mind must be a terrible place.”

And she wasn’t wrong.

People write because they need to write, or they hope to find the sanity merged within the ink on the page, or they hope that someone else can find the sense that they’ve misplaced, or they hope that maybe – just maybe – something they’ve done can be permanently etched into the history of humanity that convinces others (or more dangerously, themselves) that what they’ve mundanely done is worth something.

Isn’t it ironic?

One worthwhile thing done to justify the other worthwhile things makes those other things meaningless anyway.

They often say not to show your writing to other people unless you want it to get torn apart.  People ruin beautiful things, they said. And they aren’t wrong either.

But my writing isn’t pretty.  My writing is the trash that I need to dump in order to purify my thoughts once more.  Do monsters make war? Or does war make monsters? Do writers show the gnarled rottenness of life, the ugly sneer of the days that pass, the bittersweet stench of what-ifs and has-beens?  Or do those gnarled, rotten, ugly, sneering, bittersweet moments make the writers?

What does it matter when all that’s left in the end is the writer and a pile of pages that no one wants to read?

Localization in the spaces of our intimacy is more urgent than the date.

It’s always warm, with a slight breeze. The sun tickles my toes and I can smell Mother Nature’s perfume lingering on sweet summer’s breath. The birds call to me like I’m Cinderella, but they haven’t tried making me a ballgown yet so it seems that they are appropriately friend-zoned.

It’s my new favorite place to write.

It’s my screened-in back porch.

I’m not sure why, but locations have always held an extreme importance to me. I’m a very visual person. I like to know where things happened; if it wasn’t meant to happen there, then why didn’t it happen somewhere else?

I still remember my first house. And the second. And when I see the third, I almost cry. When I go to my old high school, I have such strong feelings of nostalgia that I can’t even speak to anyone when I pull into the parking lot until I can pull myself together. My high school reunion might be a emotional train wreck…

I’m at my fourth house now. When I graduate, I’ll probably move into a little apartment and become quite attached to the cheap, dingy place because that’s the only I’ll be able to afford. I’m one of those stubborn trees who stick roots down deep into the dirt and cling there like a child to it’s mother’s leg when she leaves for the first time.

Maybe it’s because I know they won’t change.

And yes, I know that they do. The landscape ages like the wrinkles on a person’s face. Give it a few years and you’ll see a new mark that wasn’t there before. Trees pop up like pimples, babbling streams crinkle in the grass like crow’s feet around laughing eyes, and weeds sprout like unruly eyebrow hairs.

But it’s still the same person. Going to a new place is like meeting a stranger for the first time.

We will see how long the inspiration lasts with this new writing haven. I’d say it’s the start of a beautiful and terrifying friendship.

Aren’t those the best?

This post was also found on this site that I co-author with many lovely people.