It's nothing short of magical. Being creative makes no sense. Why are we inspired and from where does it all originate. What is the chemical value, the physical value of questioning the reasons why anything happens? What is the implication once we begin to receive answers?
I guess it depends on what answers you get. But I'm referring to the stillness that comes with doing something entirely personal. I'm alone in the apartment. I hear my fingers hitting the keys. It won't be long now before someone interrupts me, before I'm reminded of what responsibilities are looming over me...but for now the time is mine and I'm using it to hunt down - well what can we call it? Self-control?
Currently I'm experiencing the onset of that oh-so-familiar condition of narcolepsy. I'm not proud to falter beneath sabotage. I wish I could identify specifically whatever douses the mind in that black velvet of sleepiness at the moment of truth. But maybe I'm just too relaxed. I just don't see how this weakness can ever allow a full book of fiction. I need a break for a moment to stretch my legs. Being independently productive is the God challenge of our existence. And to think it's a wild enough chase attempting to claim the right to change one's path, to alter one's habits, to act upon a goal with full determination all days. Imagine what happens when I finally get fingers around the trigger, wouldn't I just lose my mind with excitement and doubt?