I am compelled to write. You should write, Billy. Time to write.
Stop thinking that you are writing for an audience or that you shouldn’t say certain things and censor yourself in fear of big brother because then you are dishonest. Dishonest people are in sales or politics and not in the creative field of work. However, these business minded individuals don’t consider themselves dishonest as they are simply articulating the truth. Does that make sense? Yeah, it should. These folks guide your focus towards something else to benefit themselves but yo who cares about that.
Because it’s time to write. You got to write and do things you love over and over again for you to get better until you are the best. And once you are the best don’t stop.
There is a word counter at the bottom and I will force myself to hit 500 words as a measure of accomplishment. I will also refrain from cursing unless it is absolutely necessary because I believe I curse a lot and it cheapens my writing or takes away the thunder from lightening. Whatever that means.
Stream of conscious used to be fun when I was young and O! did it ever flow from my fingertips onto the keyboard. I was so good at it that I stopped and decided to focus on other things to deliver my thoughts such as performing and film making. What a big mistake that I must correct immediately. Time to write every night and repent to the demon that lives beneath my fingertips.
But didn’t you write while you were earning that expensive bachelor degree? Why yes I did and none of it was creative. Academic writing was soul crushingly yet I still had a glimmer of joy from typing words and holding a printed document I created. I’m sure deep in the subconscious I have etched an ability to fully form arguments and present my ideas in a more coherent way then what you are reading right now but that will all come together once I put more time in exercising the creative side again. I will also take the time to read through my writings once to fix glaring mistakes and hopefully expand on ideas. There I just read through it once again which I regret because I ain’t done yet.
Time to write. I must write every night and grow back the cystic notches on my wrists that accompany the carpal tunnel I developed in my youth. These hands are no long devices solely used for gaming and maiming my reproductive tenders. Juice shall flow from my index, middle, ring and pinky every night. Let it flow unto you kind reader. Seeker of inner truth. I shall be nothing but a conduit. A servant. A serpent. These absurd words I bring to you are in exercise of my ability to express emotion and explore the human condition.
Get it out. Write it out of me. Get all these words out until I am able to say something. It takes time and it’s ugly, unpolished, and raw. But it must be done as it is now time to write.