Start.... again......
To start and stop, ponder and wait, disrupt the flow of pen strokes pondering a perfection that will never come. This is where I went wrong, trying too hard to impress, to appease a reputation that was never there. Sit and let flow, dribble the carnage of mashed words in long lengths from left to right, I forgot the reasons behind the words, the healing they did and the lust for expression they once yielded. Writers block, the invisible wall that keeps pen tips withdrawn and keyboards cold. Live and let flow, let the words tumble onto the page as they come and sort the corpses out later, or let them rot, maybe that's the imperfections that make something so perfect. Motivation is like a temperamental spring in a mountain side. When it flows don't cup your hands and drink, only to find yourself begging for it when its dry. Find a bucket and capture its lusty cold wetness; use it generously knowing its a gift and not disposable. It's mesmerizing to watch the water dribble into a bucket, watching its ripples, splashes and the chaos of unpredictable turbulence but if patients is your virtue, the jumble of words follow each other one after the other in no particular order coming to form long string of sentences that might possibly have some rhythm and melody between their improperly used punctuations and law of the written language. But to start again, like rekindling an old coal stove from a winters past, nearly dead and cold but still clinging to life, scattered by ash of old stories told, a brief history of creativity and expression lay motionless and inaudible, patiently waiting the fuel to come when it seemed hopeless, that was a hobby long lost, a spring long dried up with only fossilized crustaceans sprouting from its vein. Get past my fears and let it flow. Writing, a therapy less known, quite often stumbled upon accidentally in some cases such as my own. I would have spent my entire life not knowing of this little demon inside of me was crying out to have its story immortalised on some spreadsheet tucked into the back page of 5th grade math book in a damp dark basement. That story might never be found but those words will outlive any breathing creature on this world for centuries to come. So there you have it, a rebirth to a million ideas that constantly haunt my thought, vibrating down a triangular hopper, condensed, conveyed, and defects denied until the mash of letters fall into their respective packages and later consumed.
To start and stop, ponder and wait, disrupt the flow of pen strokes pondering a perfection that will never come. This is where I went wrong, trying too hard to impress, to appease a reputation that was never there. Sit and let flow, dribble the carnage of mashed words in long lengths from left to right, I forgot the reasons behind the words, the healing they did and the lust for expression they once yielded. Writers block, the invisible wall that keeps pen tips withdrawn and keyboards cold. Live and let flow, let the words tumble onto the page as they come and sort the corpses out later, or let them rot, maybe that's the imperfections that make something so perfect. Motivation is like a temperamental spring in a mountain side. When it flows don't cup your hands and drink, only to find yourself begging for it when its dry. Find a bucket and capture its lusty cold wetness; use it generously knowing its a gift and not disposable. It's mesmerizing to watch the water dribble into a bucket, watching its ripples, splashes and the chaos of unpredictable turbulence but if patients is your virtue, the jumble of words follow each other one after the other in no particular order coming to form long string of sentences that might possibly have some rhythm and melody between their improperly used punctuations and law of the written language. But to start again, like rekindling an old coal stove from a winters past, nearly dead and cold but still clinging to life, scattered by ash of old stories told, a brief history of creativity and expression lay motionless and inaudible, patiently waiting the fuel to come when it seemed hopeless, that was a hobby long lost, a spring long dried up with only fossilized crustaceans sprouting from its vein. Get past my fears and let it flow. Writing, a therapy less known, quite often stumbled upon accidentally in some cases such as my own. I would have spent my entire life not knowing of this little demon inside of me was crying out to have its story immortalised on some spreadsheet tucked into the back page of 5th grade math book in a damp dark basement. That story might never be found but those words will outlive any breathing creature on this world for centuries to come. So there you have it, a rebirth to a million ideas that constantly haunt my thought, vibrating down a triangular hopper, condensed, conveyed, and defects denied until the mash of letters fall into their respective packages and later consumed.
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