Time becomes irrelevant when you are doing the work. You are reminded again of the strange currents of your creative endeavors. You hold no resentment in the madness. An entire life, your father disappeared into his office for weeks on end, he wouldn't eat, the cups of coffee piled up around his desk, you tried to reach his attention but never could. Eventually he would resurface, gaunt, musty, but done. I have finished the manuscript, is all he would say, and you never knew if he was happy or not about it.
The point of addictions is rarely to be happy, but to feel sated.
You feel the whims of your mental illnesses melt away, the questions of purpose you never can seem to shake. A day passes, you do not remember to leave the apartment, to eat, to make your bed. Long after the city goes to sleep, you have not remembered to go to bed. Feel like you missed out on a day in the real world.
You are not happy.
But you are sated.
And so you carry on the legacy you have been given.
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