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Probably not a good sign

Chemicals drag us around. You can feel them coursing through you, when you stop and let it in. It’s a fibrous liquid, and it pulls at every part of you at all times. Stop trying, because it ends up dragging you everywhere. It is fate and physical control.

Mock its power and it comes back to jerk you away. It’s a hell of a beast. Stop trying to do something different because it always does the same. It’s not bad, it shouldn’t make you feel bad. Stop trying, you’re trying too hard again. The right stimulus is impossible to find, so stop trying to find it and just go and let the movements occur. Light in all your fingertips and heavy in the chest. Gulping.

Stare at the space between the point formed by your thumbs, and think about shapes for a minute or two, or ten or twenty. Start counting. Try to find calm.

It’s a storm, and the ground is rocking. Crashing and thrusting its contents all about, dislodging that which it holds up.

This is called perfection. Perfection is this. What you create, it is perfect. Raw and final, and natural, utterly effortless, devoid of intention, flowing free from the fingers. Congratulations!

Merit blesses you on this day, and you feel a slight urge to vomit again because yuck, sometimes it feels worth expelling. Intentionality is the death of something, but it must bring something else. Inspiration is what I want, without the intentionality that might need to come first. Arrogance.

Probably not a good sign. Lack of something?

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