Write What You Know

Write what you know.
What I know? 
What do I know?
I know nothing.
I don’t even know myself.
Constantly shifting, changing, adapting. And then I wonder if there is even real power in truly knowing anything. I mean, the moment we stop learning we die. So, do I want to know everything? Do I wish to die knowing everything, or do I want to die with childlike wonderment?
I sit at the desk pulling cards and guessing what each picture means.
Swords: I believe that they are piercing. There’s some secret holding you back. 
Pentacles, 3 of them to be exact: there is something that is being contemplated, lots of planning out. 
Justice: fate is the seer of everything. She keeps a watchful eye and soon the gavel will drop. 
Lovers: oh the lovers, this is a pleasant card. 
Loving, prosperous, a union but doesn’t necessarily mean romantic love.
Two of Pentacles: all your worries exist in your head.
I shuffle and shuffle telling myself stories. And the questions in my head shuffle just the same. The laptop shuts off on its own and I can see my rattled appearance in the reflection of the screen.
Write what you know.
What do I know?
I stare up at the ceiling.
I could write about the trains. Or about the books I’ve read.
But no one will really care because all those stories redirect themselves back to men. 
That’s what I know.
I know men.
Well, sort of.
I know sex and lies and accusations. I understand drunken arguments and heavy breathing. I understand smiles and disappearances. 
While all the while wondering what I did wrong. 
What I continue doing wrong, without once placing the blame on them. 
It’s easier to blame myself. 
To learn from my own mistakes. 
But the page is still blank and I begin replaying all the broken scenarios.
I think of Gabriel and Paul and Bob and Douglas and Angel and the countless men that have entered and exited stage left from my chaotic life. I think of my vows and the incoherent expectations I placed on marriage. I think of my teenage years and the culmination into my 20’s. The drunken graduation from whiskey to cocaine. 
And I realize that is what I know. 
I know chaos. 
I know voices in the dark. Whispers between vulnerable laughter. 
I know tears. 
I understand confusion. 
I understand self destructive tendencies that make me feel alive. 
Douglas said “write what you know.” And coffee has never tasted the same.
Bob said “you can write but you have to be disciplined at it.” And then he handed me a pocket version of Rilke.
Paul knew nothing. He didn’t know how I cried. He didn’t know how I laid in bed contemplating death. But he knew the curve of my ass. He knew how to tie my hair in a ponytail. He knew how many lines of coke I enjoyed but not how many it took for me to lose control. 

I know nothing of men but I know what to write.