An entire day washes itself through your sandy deltas, filters its sunshine and hours and distractions, the dog sleeps on your bed while you writhe in the agony of reaching that still place at the center of your being. It is not quiet there, it is not empty like the vortex of a meditation, I do not close my eyes. In the eye of the storm there is merely a moment where nothing else can reach you, where nothing exists but the words at your fingertips. All day, I see my little boat torn in and out of the hurricane, pulling to reach that stillness but failing, trying to sit in words but tumbling about in raging whitewaters. Anytime I reach the page, I can exhale, I can see the narrow path towards enlightenment, I can see why I scratch these marks into my skin so I bleed.
This is the process. This is the maelstrom you always must navigate. You write your lists and attempt to optimize, but these tricks are just your attempts to pretend you don't know how the magic works. You have to wade through the waters, you have to pace around the process. Eventually everything settles, and the words stream from your quiet place.
Stay on the boat. Be here when they do.
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