There are authors you read because they tell great stories. And poets who have a rhythm that entirely matches your own.
And then there are bloggers. Who you read…because writing that is about the everyday is the closest that comes to mapping your thoughts or contradicting them like a conversation with somebody you were close to would. This is not the first time I’ve written about the empathy I feel towards the writers I don’t know. It’s important to me, how I cope, how I remember in touch with how human I am despite every attempt not to be.
It seems inexplicable, ridiculous even to say that I find my inspiration in blogs. The rants and ramblings of regular people is not the kind of reading you can boast about. But you should. It’s some of the most real writing I know.
It’s raw, and that’s something I miss in books. It’s confessional, something i miss in fiction.
And at the end of a particularly bad day of feeling incapable of love or compassion, you come home to a post or a link that leads you to a poem and everything is okay for a minute. The world slows down, becomes decipherable again. And a flash is enough to keep going.
I’m sure everyone has these moments, they must find them in their loved ones, the completion of a task, that high point on a Saturday night. And I find it in conversations with people I don’t and don’t want to know.
There are innumerable connections in the world and some of them are easier to explain than others. Even for me, this feels like a strange place to find clarity. But there is something about cacophony and the people you know too well that can cloud all that is good and important. Words are easier to work with, so I start there.
And somewhere along the line, I find my way back to my real life.