Beat Up, Shut Up

I traveled one of those mornings where I felt like I was walking the valley of the despised. Well known self-descriptions about being inadequate and passive, smart enough to know I’m not too smart, talented enough to appreciate that I lack real talent, bright enough to recognize I’m really not that bright, rushed through me with the power of a swollen spring river. Following that period, some self-flagellation was indulged: it’s all a show of mute head-noddings and quick smiles to show I’m in on it, too, when it all flashes past with a hurrying hummingbird’s speed.

That done, I shower and engage in a transformation. Looking in the mirror, I see no changes, but I feel them inside. I know what I went through, just a ninety minute tour of the personal hell I sometimes send myself to (tell me, do you have one, too?), but emerged, almost alright, close enough to that mark to get it done, at least. Then I scrambled to go on with anything and everything, just to ensure I was going on.

Time to write like fucking crazy, at least one more time.


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