Write what you know.
Moments, usually after dark but sometimes just after sunup on the weekends. You wonder when it will all come together. Then you wonder if you’d even recognize together if it bit you in the ass. And whether that’d be enough anyhow. Days sink into each other, after all.
You are supposed to rise above. This is what everyone tells you, what every book says. But you get into your head and do your work in silence, in dark rooms, alone after everyone has gone to bed. You dream, and you feel ten million miles removed from the people two flights of stairs up above. They are at the destination, and you want to bring them something of permanence, then everything. You want to bring them your love expressed in this work, done in solitude. In a world where the screamers and attention-seekers always win, always fucking win, you hold to your conceit. The more people yell, shout, call the world over to their corners, the harder you bite your lip. The problem is that eventually, you bleed.
So the challenge is alchemy: crimson, thick with iron, into stone. Stone doesn’t move, but you can carry it. Maybe this is your rock and there is your hill–that the work may be most of what you get out of the whole deal. That the work will have to be its own reward. Now–bite down on it. Bleed into it. The acid you taste is resolve. Make this rock your presentation, what you hold in and bring out of your heart. You would carry it over hill and dale, in the cool of the plain, under a desert moon, now that you know.
Thanks to SB for the prompt and KM for the read. Treasure is where you find it.