Flowed

Back in the apartment, the nights have turned black. Windows and lives light up across the street like a dollhouse; I see every move, every lonely endeavor. Life is sad, when you look at it.

The suitcase still stands in the hallway, the pantry is empty, when I turn on the music and land in front of the word processor, feel limber fingers dance lightly across its long abandoned keys. Suddenly, it is twelve hours later and I haven't moved an inch. I haven't eaten, dressed, so much as looked up. My kidneys ache, my muscles. The music is so loud my head is numb and my eyes play tricks on me from fatigue.

No matter.

When the Flow catches you, you ride its wave. You dive through words, you travel the stories. You build the pages you came here for, to begin with. And it's a good reminder.

If you peel everything else away, every pile of money, every lifestyle magazine trinket and notion of what you are supposed to make of your life, every meaningless rat race stressors nipping at your heels, this is what remains. The word is your purpose, your joy, your first love. 

Whatever means you employ to maintain that, it is fine. When you find love, you never let it go.