Tics are good for metaphors, but little else.
Frustration is like a tic, fattening up for as long as you will allow. You have control over your frustrations, but all too often it can be tempting to ignore the tic.
Don’t ignore the tic. Blow out a lit match and burn that fucker off. There is no reason to hesitate in doing so. The moment you hesitate is the moment you bring your frustrations onto yourself. Confront the issue. Deal with it. Expel it.
You are not doing the tic a favor by allowing it to suck you dry. He’ll be spoilt and lose the drive to find a new host by that point. You’ll kill each other if you don’t just confront the issue at hand. You cannot allow your fear to confront the tic to keep you from protecting yourself and demanding what you deserve: a parasite free life.
So just go on and do it. Blow out a lit match and burn that fucker off.
Free-write // 19 Jan 2014
From day to night.
The sunshine breathed through the veil-like curtains. Her eyes stayed with the beams while her mind wandered until she had white spot-filtered vision. Blinking once, twice and with effort, she turned her head to the blank page in front of her.
Words filled her. They were a part of her. Not only in her heart and head, but in the muscles that begged to be challenged.
She put the pen’s tip to the page, her mind wandering beyond the places that she had physically explored. The blankness filled with swirly line upon swirly line, soon turning into flowery landscapes that resembled henna on hands and forearms.
Her thoughts sent her eyes adrift. A sight she had not anticipated caught her up, ripping her out of those wandering thoughts. Nothing fingered its way through the veil. A blue-black night accepted its place quietly behind the white see-through curtains.
Her eyes widened with fear at the lack of protest.
Looking away for solace, she only now realized with a jolty heart and a strained head that she had done nothing upon nothing for hours and, possibly, for much longer. The doodles stared back at her defiantly, their laughter screaming in her ears. The words were still all over and within her, but she could feel that they, left there, had become a little weaker.
She left her nook in search of something to eat with the edge of hunger.
She breathes a sigh of relief. Ahhhh. At last, it has come, she coos to herself, referring to the swift and forceful wind that blows down that blockage, precariously put up with straws, but productively enough to suppress her own productivity.
The roar of the wind alone quivers the obstruction—second thoughts tug at her mind strings, inflating insecurities. Perhaps I have not yet reached my haven.
But alas the words from her flow.
Once again and perhaps not for the last time she realizes that this obstruction was alone built by her. Likewise, she alone can inhale the breath that blows her through to the other side, which houses words set in ink from her mind translated to the material world.
She hopes she will not forget this lesson, but knows the lapse in memory is inevitable. For now, while it is preserved in her mind, even if only temporarily, she closes this Word document. Retrieving another story started, she continues, happy to be at the more hopeful step in the cycle.
The uncomfortable sounds of living.
I hear the hum-drum of the machine to which I am a slave, that which steals every ration of my passion. The warning sirens peel violently down the freeway, screaming at me: do not stay in your own wake of complacency—there you will find nothing but drained gasoline and chum—should you stay, the sharks are sure to show.
I miss the sounds of the beach when my feet made the shore water slosh with the firm, wet sand and the soft waves would whisper ever so gently in my ear that here… here, I am home. The nostalgia’s singing drowns out the sirens that sound there too: do not stay in your own wake of complacency…
For the city may not be quiet, but it is where the struggle for my voice to be heard is imminent and, thus, made. The city is where I struggle and thrive; torn away from my birth-home, I am forced to live.
The apocalypse of a writer who fails to write.
That nagging insecurity is not there by accident. It is not its fault that you misinterpret it either. When your heart beats, every beat drums a potent life force into your stream; every beat that you fail to take full advantage of is a dismal waste, the potency flowing further and further until it is beyond the physical, scratching its nails against your stream of consciousness. But it cannot live there. It must be used. When it lives in passive thoughts rather than as tools for you to wield and manipulate your own destiny, it manifests as an aching, insatiable—and as I have said—nagging insecurity.
It will not go away. It is not there to tell you that you cannot. It does not spitefully question why you even bother trying. It is there, pounding, screaming “Wake up, fool, lest you sleep your destiny away.” It is there with vain attempts to save you. It needs to save you because it is you, that potent life force. It does not go away, but if you let it, it will consume you.
It does not consume you because it hates you; it consumes you out of necessity: you have not focused its hunger as you were meant to. You have let what you view as a nagging insecurity go hungry. It is unrecognizably emaciated. Its emaciation forces it to consume and, conveniently, you have become a being of consumption. While you consume the world’s offerings and offer nothing in return—not even the gift you were destined to give—you begin to be consumed.
That ‘nagging insecurity’ was not there to tell you that you cannot. It was there to wake you so to avoid that painful moment when you realize that everything you have done is nothing. You have once again failed in the epic battle against Resistance, but it is worse this time because there is less time for redemption. Your life force has been reduced to the mere sound of a mouse click. You finally know that the sense of urgency coursing through your system, pounding your heart, shaking your hands, bringing together your brows, is in vain. Not even that demanding urgency can will you to get off of your ass and give your gift back to the world.
You are a creature of consumption; as is appropriate you are damned to be consumed.