Creation Looking Back Upon Itself

It's easier and better not to write.

Until it isn't, and you find yourself unable to stop.

Soon you've made it a few lines and fallen prey to the seduction of filling a blank page, the act of creation, and you can't help but smile inside because you've made it this far. But then you have to keep going, so the smile is put on hold, held concomitant with the rush of putting more and more developing thoughts and feelings into ever-evolving words.

It's magnificent.

Soon the five minutes you said you'd give yourself are already up, and you didn't even notice. What are you going to do now?

Keep writing, you say. And so you do.

The piece you're constructing morphs as it desires, and you go right along with it. But then you think a bit and become meta-aware of the stream of consciousness this is making, and you know what happens when you consider editing at this phase because that always tricks you right back out of the creative spirit. Soon you would regret ever having done that. So you jump right back in.

There's a million thoughts going on inside you, and you have the urge to share them all at once, however you might be able to fit them into the draft. But this piece was only supposed to be so long, and insights can only be so many for someone who is not yourself, operating outside your internal logic.

You need to give them something of reasonable cohesion. There's a time and place for everything, Professor Oak once told you, but not now.

If the piece of writing itself were a lesson, what would it say? You never know what might come out when you hit the page? You never know what might happen if you say you'll give yourself five minutes? The point is there's no point at all? Just let it happen and deal with the results of ideation in the aftermath, when you sit back in your chair in awe of the word count you just checked, the length of the draft as you scroll up and down the document?

All of these, perhaps, and none of them if you want. Writing is always up to you, how flexible it is. The only constant is that it starts from you and circles back to the source when it serves its transcendent purposes, bringing people into themselves as they are when thrust into the middle of circumstances and forced to contend with wonder.

People are at their best when they are conscious, ready to take on duties and make observations, ready to be thrilled. People are divine, and that latent magic wants to be alive and engaged in the unfolding mystery of now.

Writing proceeds from this encounter and circles right back to it, achieving the apotheosis of being itself: bringing itself more into existence, disclosing evermore wonders and mysteries hinted at in the offing.

Soon the page feels as if it has hit a climax, is winding down, and the words spool out in a decompressive gasp. Your hands feel light, agile, but heavy with momentary significance. They are powerful, and you can feel the truth of such an observation. Look at what they accomplish, given just a little time.

Look at what you can accomplish, if you give yourself permission to do so.

It's easier and better not to write. And then it isn't.