“Write hard and clear about what hurts.”
Said the man who blew his brains out.
Sorry if that seems coarse,
But Hemingway would understand.
Hard and clear?
Isn’t that why you became a writer in the first place
Instead of blowing your brains out?
I’m far too sensitive to my environment to be a normal person.
Someone vulnerable to suicide.
Someone who writes and thinks about sunsets, and waves, and injustice.
Someone who wonders how the world was created.
Or why the world was created. Or who created the world.
I have to taste life twice because I can’t believe how rich it is.
I want to savor
The full-bodied flavor
Of life in its burgeoning flourish.
The blossoming zest and delicious zing.
The sour punch of even a sting.
To gorge on the layered palate/palette of artistry that is our living, breathing world,
Is a meal too sumptuous to refuse.
But I can understand why Ernest would want to push away from the table.