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In the middle of the night, I start writing in my sleep. I dig through the stories buried six feet deep. I slip between the pages of all twenty five books piled by my side, they’re rising like sandcastles reaching for somewhere beyond the sky — perhaps somewhere behind the moon, beyond the rain.* I surrender into these blackish blue hours, letting worries fade faster than winters daylight.
Before long, the words begin to float across the page in unison — like a fleet of tiny ships floating across a sleepy ocean. All night long, under the brightest moon, words glide through my mind like lullabies. I forget the world and its nightmares — and dream on and on about the stories I try desperately to write.
What’s a woman to do, but spend these hours after midnight learning how to fall — by falling up to the sky. I am the nights muse. My lungs are full of flowers and every breath is a lyric that blooms in direct starlight. My soul is a galaxy of infinite life. I am a river of troubled water, overflowing through the dirty streets of a concrete city where pity does not live — and living best lives is a weary myth set against the reality of these 2020 struggle Olympics.
Chronic brokenness of spirit can be resistant to healing — but not immune to it. It’s not a medal I choose to wear. When…
