Writer's Notebook Passages.

I was meant for the broken home. With an integrity of potential iron, I was made to pull myself up by bootstraps, raise my younger siblings, and light out for the territories on my eighteenth birthday. Created to follow my heart and my passion, I’d figure things out for myself and etch out a place in this world with nothing but grit and fingernails. I’d marry for crazy, delirious love and send my irresponsible mother a card every year at Christmas and call her on her birthday. I was made to sacrifice, to pay now play later. I was never meant to spoil in such materialism. I was meant to feel. I was meant to hurt. And I was meant to do something about it.

I live for bohemian nights like this one. Nights of upset routines with a constant loop of crickets and Midwestern zephyrs, reminding me that there’s a world behind the glass and that I’m a pinprick on top of a pinprick on top of a pinprick. It’s the kind of night to live for the damp air and the way my knuckles look in such a lighting. Consequence is no brother to the soul’s artistry, but the soul’s artistry is no brother to our modern world.