There was a happy chance at solitude. There was beauty in my dungeoned bedroom on a Saturday night. Opportunity is not rare; opportunity simply has a fair camouflage. I’d long ago learned to spot it, and though it liked to play tag, I was getting quite good at catching it as well.
Opportunity, in my form, is time and a spark. Creativity seldom strikes in a convenient manner. It burns slow when my days are full and hits hard when I’m in a crowd. It takes practice and the roping of patience to keep it around until I can be alone. But when I am….oh, when I am, sparks turn to bolts and the burning turns to dangerous flames. It’s such a happy chance at solitude. Writing in the presence of other still-beating hearts is too much of a risk. Writing alone, I know I can only hurt myself. No one else will be worn down because of me.
It’s because I write like it’s the end, like there was nothing in the universe that could save me. I write like this because it’s all I know.