But Now When I Fall Upon The Sidewalks Of Life, I Skin My Knees. I Bleed.

This morning I have returned to bed after a quick trip to the gym. With a hot cup of tea by my side, I curl up gently under my bright turquoise comforter with the poetry of Billy Collins. For no particular reason, I am treating the dawn as though it were the winter, reveling in the warmth of my bed. I feel old and scholarly and safe. I feel inspired.

I’ve always believed that writing was a skill, not a gift. I believed that if you were to simply practice it enough, try and make yourself write every day, that you would undoubtedly be good at it. But that isn’t quite it, is it? It really isn’t about writing itself. It’s about feeling inspired. Sure, anyone can learn the technical stuff. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out how to place a noun, adjective and verb into a sentence. It does however, take a writer to turn that noun, adjective and verb into art. And what is art if not a reflection of inspiration?

After reading the poem from which I got the title of this blog, I started thinking about the scars on my knees. I have one on each. One is from a rock climbing incident where I slipped and banged up against the monstrous cliff half way up, only to take a deep breath and continue, leaving behind me a trail of blood from my battle wound. The other is from tripping over my own two feet at the train station. I like the absurdity of the contrasting stories. One filled with adventure and bravery, while the other serves as a reflection of my clumsiness and idiocy. Somehow, I find them both grotesquely beautiful.

It is only just now that I’ve realized why the tripping incident at the train station is a significant moment. What makes the difference in who we are I think, is the first thought we have after falling. I often forget that not everyone thinks the way I do. While some people would immediately consider their medical options (how to clean and bandage the wound), their legal options (who to hold responsible for the hole in the cement), or their humiliation (how many people saw them face-plant onto the sidewalk), the first thing I thought of was the story. I thought about where I would put the emphasis in the sentences, how I would build up to the moment I fell, the expression on my face as I reenacted the scene. I thought about the way my blood was trickling down my leg like a tear down a cheek, each drop slowly rolling into the next. I thought about the introduction, the climax, the ending. I thought like a writer.

I have a very long way to go before I can ever write the way that I would like to, if I even ever get there. I have a feeling that like most of my life, I’ll never truly be content with it, but I’ll always keep trying. I’ll always keep moving towards that something more that I want for myself. I guess all I mean is that I do have to practice to become a writer, but part of me already is. Writing is a skill, but being a writer is a gift. Being inspired by noble ideas is a gift. Seeing potential everywhere is a gift. It’s a gift that I’ve been blessed with, and maybe that’s completely conceded of me, but I think that it’s alright to recognize my own potential. I’d be upset if anyone else neglected to recognize theirs.

I don’t know if I believe that we’re destined to do any one thing. I don’t know if I believe that I’m destined to be a writer, or that I’m even capable of being a writer for that matter. What I do know, what I do believe, is that there are stories everywhere, and that I’ll spend my life trying to tell them as best I can. All I need is a little inspiration.