It’s 3:07 AM and I can’t sleep.
Someone’s poem started off just like that, once.
Apparently you shouldn’t ever make the mistake of reading your own work, after you’ve finished working on it. In retrospect, pieces seem rather terrible, too ramblesome, as if they need to go through a cheese grater and be put back again or trashed altogether.
Why are we like this? What is this desire to pull my hair out, to stay awake until the sun comes up and try to fix it?
I wonder if creation was this painful for God.
I mean, I suppose that it was, seeing as he knew everything, all the pain we’d in turn set in motion. But still.
Sandra Cisneros’ “Never Marry a Mexican” is an absolutely amazing short story. I wish I had it with me now, quite frankly, but I don’t. And all I can think of is the psychotic, fractured emotions of that piece.
It’s so good that it hurts.