You’re all there when you’re not [The blinking line]

Courtesy of Know Your Meme

Actually, I was going to research this topic. About the state of flow. But then I thought, hey this is for me. This is entirely contradictory to the whole thesis of this piece. So here I am. Because if I looked into flow, I’d feel the need to piece it together, as some amalgamation of ideas not quite my own, a wretched cry of stitched voices of varying pitches. I want it to be resoundingly clear, even if it’s my shrill screech. So there. That’s your intro. Welcome to you’re all there when you’re not.

Every time I write from a state of being, I am incredulous how I wrote that. Like seriously, where did it come from? And then I think I peaked. And I’ll never get there again. And that spark of inspiration is lost to the aether.

Then I do it again and it’s never me. And in a way it’s right. It’s not me. But it’s through not being me, that it’s wholly possible to be only me.
Yes, I am being obtuse and pretentious eat my ass.

It’s… good! Just not quite

Why does everyone sound good, yet off? Like, you see so many pieces of art that get you thinking, but rarely does it stay. It’s not “Good, just not for me”. It’s off. Something is off about everything that isn’t perfect. The flow isn’t perfect. And when it’s not perfect, the only thing I notice is how it isn’t.

I believe there is the best version of me. That there is one singular perfect story I can write that I’ll love to absolute bits. But what the psychologist said is accurate. That you’ll always improve and change. But I counterargue. Then what's the point? If you spend all your time hard at work only to constantly eclipse yourself. That you’ll never be truly at ease, and satisfied with your work. That you have to settle. It’s one of those things that logically, yeah it makes so much sense. But I really don’t want to accept it. I can’t accept it.

my issue with writing.

Effortlessly gliding across the keys, words flowing seamlessly from brain to page. Then you go, huh, this is pretty fast. Suddenly, a mistype. A stumble. you cuss softly at yourself. you stumble some more. you tumble. you go into a full-on avalanche, collapsing under your own disappointment at being unable to maintain it that you go into a spiral that…

ok somewhere along the line this became me projecting. but I bet up until a certain point it was relatable.

i’m a combuble of ideas, jigsaw puzzles brilliant on their own that I force together. And they kind of fit. The kind of fit that makes people go ehhh with smiles they don’t mean. the kind of fit that makes me tear my hair out, because it works on paper. but it doesn’t… flow. it just doesn’t. I have to rewrite. Editing is impossible. I can have an idea, but it rarely ever turns the way I do. My destination is always at the whim of the blinking line, coming up with bullshit as I go along. but it weirdly makes sense, a coherent flow. a logical one, as each word before the last has to come from a neuron somewhere in that brain of mine. hell, the blinking line is a pretty cool title I think I’m gonna use it.

If you want to be at your best, stop trying so hard.

this is my exercise in letting go.

Then at some point, you realize you stopped stressing over it, and it’s such a huge relief. but this isn’t worth an entire article over I reckon. huh, reckon, like country. like applejack and the farm. makes me want to watch my little pony, which I will most likely do but I’m afraid of commitment even made to myself so I like to leave it open-ended, so that way I make a promise without breaking a heart.

they can tell. they can tell.

when it’s done not in a state of flow. i swear, it’s some inherent 7th sense. the way mother leopards curl defensively with their young, the way maternal figures know love, and the way we empathize with their love somehow. it transcends language, it’s emotion. they can tell. i swear. you can have the exact same line written by two people, one done from a state of being, mashed out in an aggressive show of frustration and finality, and one carefully meticulated. it doesn’t matter. the two are exactly the same. but it has some fucking aura, some juju. they are unconsciously but also somehow consciously aware it was a stifled piece, mechanical and purpose-built to sound nice. but the former is some excellent true from-the-heart shit. when they’re both. the. same. line. it’s magic I swear. either that or I’m hyper hyper sensitive to re-reading my works and idolizing some old ones. but we don’t blame my faults here, silly. that makes me have to admit them. instead let’s go with this theory of words having an aura, an energy. something something star signs sagitarius and cancer.

So what have we learned? Well, if this article somehow grabbed you, then i was right. i just said fuck it and wrote and wrote. this is a coherent lack of it, a mess of ideas that just work(ed?).

hopefully at least.

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