Every day I want to do more than I am capable of doing. I want to be a machine. I want to make the thing the best thing. I want to wrap my mind around everything, to consume every concept and turn it to liquid and create something jeweled that everyone wants to wear and admire. There is something deep inside me that is screaming. Something deep inside me that wants to stop. Something deep inside me that wants to go back to the Vipassana retreat in Nepal and sit for hours, eyes slightly open, and listen the the band of monkeys as they approach the meditation hall. Something deep inside me that wishes things could be as simple as silence and no eye contact, legs crossed and pain knifing up my spine and skin dissolving and all the sounds becoming my skin. I produced nothing then. I was nothing. I was everything.
Now I must produce. I must produce produce produce. I must page through editorial notes and page through my manuscript and toss and turn in bed as I try to wrap my mind around the…
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