To Write

To cleave into one’s innards, like a sharp steel blade slicing into a paper-bag-ripened nectarine: eventually, you’ll get to the mazing, shriveled core, but when you do, it’ll be messy, juice will be spilled, and the prospect of the truth of new life and renewal inside that crinkly brown pit is completely unenvisionable.

Everything comes before it: cleaning that long-dead Junebug out of the corner of the kitchen counter, flipping from song to song to song to song on Internet radio, flinging washed clothes into the dryer, pretending to perform an Everclear song to a sellout stadium crowd while the roommate’s off buying cigarettes, watching some exhibitionist on a webcam.

Guilt: The feeling that if you do it, if you REALLY do it, you’ve outed some dirty secret about everyone you know in some fashion or other, including, and perhaps most importantly, yourself.


Camplin said…
Rant on. Your rant shaves close to a Miller rant. Oh, some of his rants just kill me.
Ari said…
Camplin: I am honored by that comparison. No, really, cha-cha. ;) (No, really.)
Trevor Record said…
Shouldn't this be "To not write"?

Ari said…
You're probably right, Trevor. Or maybe, "To Not Write Non-fiction" at least.

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