There’s a fire.


When I write with a fury I am closest to God than I am in most other places. Rarely is my preferred writing a slow, peaceful, progressive process. Contrarily, my preferred writing is when I can’t see anything except my screen, my fingers are five words behind my brain and I’m just getting down enough letters to piece the word together afterward. It’s when I have goosebumps and my armpits are cold with an excited dampness. It’s when I stop breathing and all I can focus on is keeping my fingers at the five word delay. 

 

I’m learning how to harbor this fury. (Fury is the best word I’ve found yet. I’ve thought about it)

It’s difficult to originate and maintain the fury in a healthy manner. I know a few ways that it can be done but none which are always appropriate or even plausible. 

 

I’m a work that’s far from complete. Who’se progress bar doesn’t even show up as green yet. 

I’ve learned that this fury comes, almost as a guarantee, after failures and short falls. I suppose it makes sense why so many classic writings were alcoholics, drug addicts, and overall manics. I sympathize with them. Is there a writing that’s not driven by despair that can be called honest? 

I ask these things in a place where the answer is irrelevant.

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