And then you find a rhythm.
You don’t care where or how–that part of the brain has been shut off.
You follow it through instinct and hope, love and faith. You don’t try, it’s just there. You let it happen.
As soon as you release the will to want it to be what you want it to be, it becomes what you never expected it to become.
It’s something different, but at the same time exactly what you need and more. It comes in hints, breadcrumbs, suggestions. It flashes fully formed, then dims back to shadows. You follow it. You read it like you are translating a language you are just now beginning to understand. You giggle. You know something they don’t.
You are excited. You are in love. THIS is what it’s like!
Your fingers move with more vigor now, your mind becomes sharper. You get into what so many artists and writers call a flow. You’ve been doing this for so long but you still struggle in chasing it–you can’t be too eager but you can’t be too timid. Balance is everything.
You don’t know where it will take you, but you feel confident that you’re coming to something. It may be small, it may be huge. But you like the feeling. You trust the feeling.
Then you lose it.
You go back to see if you can add anything on, but the very concept of adding anything on is that other rougher part of you. The ego, with his plans and goals. You become an adult again, ticking at the keyboard. You slow, you hesitate, you fumble.
You’ve found your body again. You blink and rubs your eyes. Your back hurts. Your bladder is full. You haven’t eaten for five hours. You are right back where you started.
But now you have hope. You type away, kicking stones, looking around. You smile. You found the rhythm before; you can do it again.
That’s all it ever really comes down to: the life and death of your spirit is action or inaction. Typing away at the keys or not typing away. That’s the only two choices you have. You can plan until you feel you are ready or you can dive right the fuck in. Call it whatever you want, but please remember that Fulfillment and Joy and Love are verbs, not nouns. Writing must be a verb too.
I am not a writer, I am someone who writes.
I am not an artist, I am someone who creates.
I wish to find that vein of gold on the side of the mountain, and follow it down.
Brian Eno said something like that somewhere: There is no right or wrong, only making.
Let God and the Devil and humanity fight about what the fuck it is you’ve done long after you’ve done it and you’re off doing something completely different. Never let them catch up with you. Never let YOU catch up with you.
Just make. Get it down.
If only to leave a mark on this world as soft and as invisible and as powerful as fingerprints pressed to glass.
Your only job is to make as many prints as you can.