A Turbulent Stream of Consciousness You Didn’t Ask For
I’ll never draw lines or make tables with my good pen. There are special projects that warrant the use of good ink. Copying an already crafted poem onto “good paper” is worth it, but creativity that might end nowhere is not.
I have endless systems to contain and manage everything. There are notebooks reserved for completed works and finished thoughts and there are piles of scrap paper for ideas that don’t hold enough promise.
I’m stubborn, often to the point where I clash with my own utilitarianism. I’ll keep my eyes closed knowing full well I won’t fall back asleep because some mornings you’re awake and you’re up, and it doesn’t matter how darn comfy-cozy the bed might be.
But I’ll lay there and deny the obvious fact that I’m just like everyone else and had a stroke of Monday morning lazies. It’s tone-deaf pride and self-righteousness justified by telling myself that everyone is full of themselves. And if everyone’s doing it, is anyone really doing it?
Yes. Everyone is doing it, which means everyone is doing it. And that’s the ultimate defect of the human species. We really need to stop cutting ourselves all that slack. Insight is the first step, and there are many, many more steps to take after that.