The Daily Struggle

Sometimes you miss a day. Caught up in the swirl of activity that ticks each minute into crazed frenzy, and you just get lost among the mess. It's hard sometimes, figuring out why you carry on with it, why when your body's failing, time's disappearing alarmingly fast, and priorities become too tangled to identity, that you still soldier on. The only explanation I can think of is that it's something tied inexplicably to your livelihood. One of those strings of fate that entangles itself in you, and makes separation seem futile.

Regardless, each day dawns with it a new hurdle to encounter; whether it be a gluttony of sloth that disables you from work, or a waning desire to function at all--a rebellion rises up in you to combat it and in turn create something truly beautiful. For there is nothing more precious than the beauty of creation that comes from your own well of genius. A genius not seen by many for the most part, nor understood by even yourself, yet it feels irrevocably right to seek it out and nurture it. Suns will keep on setting, breathes will keep blowing in this chest, and with each rhythmic reminder of life's existence, these fingertips punch away at a truth that more and more each day seems to be fleeting into non-existence. Yet, it is neither a deterrent nor a catalyst, merely a roadblock in the search for honesty of expression.

I'll let these eyes droop until this screen becomes blurred, fuzzy letters mashing together, and yet it's all part of something greater. It's in the effort, the actual fight of creation, where the visceral parts of yourself( where experience is truly known) battle to put to words what it is your feeling. Where your body can so easily tell your mind good from bad, and hurt from pain, our attempts to try to identify it out loud seem to fall short. As though in the act of speaking we're giving power to a thought merely processed, not actually birthed into verbal existence. With each cramp that thwarts the process, every distraction that lures you away--all the mess that gets in the way of productivity; I welcome thee to plague my way. For without the struggle of it all, the end product is never worth it. It feels as though you were given a free pass, one that would soon loose its lure, and that's a fate I could never bear. Abuse me, attempt to break, ruin it all in the decimation of weakness, if only to produce the beauty that lies mired underneath it all.