Awakening.

The dark shell of the house looms over my arched neck, as I sit wondering why I ever bother to write anything at all.

What despairing prod compels the unwilling finger to discharge the mind's incoherent kaleidoscope, still churning out its chaotic dream-states even as they are poured from digit to page?

The self is no longer autonomous, aligned definitely with its conscious goals. It instead is parasitized, deflected, and floating in the recesses of itself.

To create is to endlessly re-arrange the same small stock of symbols and force new combinations from old material, and the urge to create is the imperative, cried from within the self, to replenish barren resources.

Now my prone body lies limp in the chair, a dessicated starfish, and I say: no more! no more shuffling of the same deck of cards! Yet the implacable voice demands that I produce something, that the eye must cajole the mind into smashing together a river and a sonnet in the hope of experiencing an almost-smile.

To truly create is to annihilate every thought, and begin again, child-like and vulnerable. Adult cynicism means I can never destroy everything, but I can sometimes pick away at the clouds which obscure the vision, and apprehend the universe with clarity - but only ever for a moment.