You write best when you’re scared. When your routine is mangled, bare, abandoned.
When it’s really late at night. Too late. The kind of late you shouldn’t be up to witness. There’s something different in the air. The remnant scent of my once burning candle still lingers. I hold onto this. I breathe deeply as I watch my chest rise and fall. I’m comfortable here, but not enough to close my eyes, not enough to fall asleep. My mind is moving steadily, racing every which way, trying to pin down a focused idea, a safe subject, a common, ordinary ground. Nothing is conventional during this time of the night. I’m anxious in these moments. Stripped. Exposed.
What do you do with freedom. Time with no commitments attached. Write. Write clearly and ferociously. Address what hurts. Spell it out in words and sentences. Make sense of the chaos. Ask hard questions, the kind of questions you wince at, the kind that can’t be answered with words. The kind you have to reach out for and grab, observe and pick apart. Go forth on these journeys, use your pen as your guide.
There’s magic here, in these seconds, in this freedom. Tonight. Don’t flee towards the clock. Don’t become consumed with distraction. Listen to your own beating heart. Hear what it has to say.