I overreach for dedication and burn my thumb on the frozen spacebar.
I sometimes imply that my writing is akin to a brain extraction; but lately I have found that I might have need of the pieces I have removed.
“My thoughts should gush faster than my fingers dance.” My internal editor disagrees and he controls the spigot, which isn’t necessarily bad. While he restricts ideas, he also organizes stray thoughts into meaning and forms remarkable phrases from ordinary cud. The paper becomes my medium of thought, and the editor becomes the thought’s facilitator. I dream of a day when the spigot opens and releases genius. That won’t happen. While abundant, well-formed, free-flowing thoughts would make my job easier, I accept that the world offers nothing that is free or effortless. I will always have to scrape the thoughts from my windshield, and recognize the ones that don’t melt in my hands.
I sometimes ask for more crap to sift with the refreshing thought: “the more dirt I sift, the greater the potential for golden specks.”
Caffeine scours my veins and I ache. I wonder sometimes who pushes whom in this quest.
Terror rises on lakes of fire. I don’t understand why lakes should burn; I’m not against the idea. Terror rises and dries on the evening winds.