Some of my favorite things I’ve ever written were the result of late storms and my inability to sleep through the rumbles of thunder and the lightning flashing through my closed eyelids. I’ve spent many hours trying to be poetic, to find eloquent ways to describe moments just like this one. I try to make sense of the things that scare me, the things that make me anxious in the absence of understanding. I think about the things that make me sad, the memories that I hold onto as tightly as I can without actually having to feel them, without having to see faces and replay conversations, and without having to remember what never happened, the apologies and hugs and honest words that were never spoken, without having to confront regret. I can hide from all of these things most nights when sleep comes, but the rumbles and the lightning and the inability to rest tired eyes render me defenseless.
Well, not completely. I come here. People often ask me why I write, what the goal is each time I sit down to put pen to page (or hands to the keyboard), and I have a difficult time explaining how it’s the only way I know how to even begin making sense of a life full of things that don’t make sense. I don’t want to run away from the things that scare me, I want to understand. Or at the very least, I want to understand that I can’t understand. That’s why I come here. And if I can’t do so myself, maybe you’ll show me something essential about this incredibly messy and brilliantly precious life. You can accept that as a challenge.
If you’re a writer or a maker or a human being of any kind, how do you make sense of things that don’t make sense?