In it

Late night is when I feel inspired. 11pm, 1am — late enough that even though a part of me says “down some coffee and let’s do it” the rest of me says “you’re crazy.” Wild flashes of glory, a multiferous human heart reaching for beyond pours itself into a mould of characters and snippets of dialogue. Scenes emerge in warp speed, taunting me with their solidity. Tonight I say “fuck it” and sit down at my laptop and it all vanishes.

Nothing pours out. My mind is a flickering lightbulb in a cavernous empty warehouse: small and out of control. Popping tabs and typing “facebook.com” only to close out and start again. All I can remember is the feeling of having seen something beautiful.

To write is weeks: discipline, time spent banging my head at a wall until thoughts swirl out fully formed. They will only come out just so and when they are ready..which is not to say they don’t require effort. And what comes onto the page is a pretty rough approximation of ∞ and it’s shit, or it’s a start.

Fuck it, I say. I’m going to become an accountant or something. I write another sentence and spit on that one too. The difference between who I am and who I want to be oscillates from a yawning gulf to a hydrogen atom. The flashes appear in my periphery when I turn to the side…I need to meditate more (the only real Rx.)

I want to hit fast forward all of a sudden..and pause and rewind simultaneously (lol) (sic). I feel at rest in four-dimensional spacetime, my screaming impatience protracted and splayed across t. To be at once screaming – in joy as much as tumult – and also serene. A newborn baby punched in the jaw by the everythingness of everything, scattering into atoms and dancing…

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