different kinds.

I read some beautiful writing today. The kind that makes your palms tingly. The kind that makes you unconsciously hold your breath. I live for those moments. I can't tell you why, exactly, other than this: in those moments there's a wholeness in the universe and myself that is complete. It is the closest thing I can imagine to the absolute. And I know it's real when I read something and say to myself, Someday I'll write like that.

There are different kinds of writing in my life.

There's journal writing, which I have done on and off since I was 13 or 14. It's self-absorbed fear and heartbreak and mad love.

There's notebook writing, writing practice. I've really only been doing it for the past 3 or 4 years. And even then, I've really only been dedicated to it for a year or less. This is usually where I plug in freewriting, make lists and let ideas gather some energy.

There's blog writing, which I have done on and off for the past 4 years. For all practical purposes, I've only done it for the last 3 months because I've deleted every other blog. I mean deleted, contents wiped out and destroyed. Yes, I know - bad habit.

There's structured writing, when I'm trying to actually create a piece. Maybe an essay, a prose-poem, something lyrical that you can sit down and read.

And then there's real life writing. This is the worst and hardest.
This is writing directly to someone else about honest and hurtful things. This is sitting down to digest the words of someone you love who might disapprove of or dislike something you say or think or feel. This is bad news in the form of a letter or an email. And this is when I have to write back. I have to compose the words that aren't just an image or an idea - I have to lay down the words that are me. I always hold my breath and sometimes I cry.

I've been doing a lot of real life writing lately. I can't lie - it sort of dries me out. Add that in to the other projects and work and people and life and my brain feels nearly scraped clean. My fingers feel like lead. My eyes feel weak.

These are the times to stay awake to beauty and truth and love. Stay awake to the boy in the green t-shirt who galloped down the street and the two men who kindly said Good evening and always the sky, ripped in half and blasted full with neon pink and gold and the dying sun.

Stay awake and write about it.