Compulsion

I’m writing one thousand words. Right now.

I sift through my memories. Stories well up inside me. I can’t put my finger on one. While I walk throughout the day there are voices in my head, voices that recreate memories, that tell stories, that speak in poetic verse, that force their way through me, and beg to be captured, but as I sit here, there is only the reflection of these things.

I need. Nay. I want to apply to a few jobs today, even if they’re out of my capability. I really hate the idea…

My thoughts cease.

I hate the idea of revising my resume. Not sure why. It’s paralyzing.

I think of what I want. What DO you want? I’m not sure. Something deep a small voice says within me. Well, what the flying fuck does that mean. How do you acquire deep. I honestly don’t know. Read more, reflect more, do more, reflect more, hurt more, reflect more, practice more, and more, and more.

Repetition is what makes the world static, what gives things power, gravity, like a depression in space that draws us in, repetition creates an impression, like a trail in the mind, like a groove etched by a running river through granite. Repetition is power, is persistence, is what forms the world, what carves out creation. Repetition.

Repetition is how all things are mastered.

Emotion gives it roots, and expands the tentacles to connect to other impressions. But repetition is what plants it deeper and deeper, is what allows these roots to take hold very deeply, and take hold of other ideas, other sensations impressed upon the mind, very distantly, which provides the abstractions produced by intuition, which is none other than the general synthesis of these associated impressions.

Repetition.

Repeat, repeat, repeat.

But not just any repetition.Excellent is not an act, but a habit. Always aim for perfection. Do not be lazy. You will perform as well as you practice. You cannot outperform bad practice. You are always on a stage.

So doing is never enough. You must emphasize proficiency all the time. Every moment, every thought, should be accurate, should hit the bulls eye.

I’m sitting next to a caucasian woman in her mid to late thirties who embodies a homely mom, which isn’t to say she isn’t put together, she just looks like a mom, with her pale color pallet and conservative fashion sense, all of which is comprised of a white knitted unexceptional cardigan over a lichen green high collared fabric under shirt, with neutral makeup that is primarily applied around her outlined eyes and upper cheeks, with her loose fitting clothes, which likely hide a body disfigured by multiple births and poor eating habits.

She’s meeting with who I would guess is a Thai or Vietnamese man in his mid twenties who is wearing a fitted red polo and slim blue slacks with $60 nike running shoes with black ankle socks. His frame is thin, and he has some facial hair on his upper lip and chin. He wears a black (wedding?) band on his left ring finger, and a large plain contemporary watch with a white face, no numerals, and a black fabric band. She’s speaking non stop. He’s leaning forward, with his elbow on the table, and his hand is gripping his chin as he stares at her with rapt attention, or so it seems. He may be elsewhere, but his expression appears to care.

She’s selling his social media marketing services, and explain things like “qualified leads” and how to get “organic impressions”. While I was over listening I heard him mention his business, or business idea, or concept, or something that involved advertising and marketing for his personal training business. I found this laughable, but who the hell knows. Where there is a will there is a way, and an idea is only as good as how well its executed. Never mind my own experience in fitness, and how horribly saturated the industry is, but that isn’t to say there isn’t room to make money. I just don’t know how much he expects to make. I suppose that depends on how much he believes he deserves to make.

The woman is slightly annoying. Besides her rapid staccato speech, she’s got an annoying tone in her voice, like she’s spitting out facts and knowledge about crap she knows, appearing to be an authority, regardless of whether he actually cares to know it, or is processing at all. It’s been non stop for 15 minutes now, punctuated by her occasional “Ya know?” and his “Yea”, and then she just vomits up more words at breakneck speed. She could be a speed talker. It’s rather annoying. Simply because…. I honestly don’t know if she’s effectively communicating with him.  His hand continues to rest on his chin, and her wide eyes, which seem to say “I told you so” in a sarcastic tone, are staring at him while her lips blur with the noises from her face hole.

Anyway.

Writing.

When you let it flow, and let your inner thoughts take form on their own, and disregard any tendency to mold and shape them into something you deem good, then the best of your thoughts appear.

Writing is the process of puncturing your propensity to censor.

It’s the most creative craft of all. It has the power to change inner dialog, which is nothing more than a moral conscience that encourages us to delve deeper or refrain in fear.

It is the art that moves the masses into chronic consumption and compulsory care.

Nine hundred and forty words, almost there.

Not that I’m counting.

There are endless stories to tell, an everlasting well flowing beneath the surface of this exterior. Feelings forever. Ebbing and flowing. Crashing and collapsing.

I want to write whatever is compelling. I want the words to write themselves. I want my stories to speak to the inner child that wonders whether he is alone, and who else feels as I do, or thinks the same thoughts.

I’m three drinks deep.

Being a drunk isn’t necessarily an aspiration, but inhibitions are a bitch, and it feels better when there is a liquid raft beneath me. It makes the oceanic feeling much easier to endure.