pen | ultimate

The last day to work and approaching exhaustion, motivation lays alongside me, still snoozing past the morning's alarm. I lie here too, mentally preparing for the final onslaught, the last push which will undoubtedly drain me completely. However, the dance is delicate. I must let flow the creative desires and then sail them without second thought or hesitation. Now is the time for greatness.

firewild

The logic and structure of the editorial self battles the free-form expressionism of the creative mind, a taxing strain resulting in excessive sleep. Now a step behind in pace of progress, I must press forward with greater determination in order to equalize. Feeding the fire of mania with this dry desire in hopes of burning out in a blaze of greatness.

The Glide v2

Sprinting along the cliff, the safety of the ground beneath me, the freedom of the air just out of reach. The wind blows encouragement, nudging me along without regard to consequence, and little by little, I let myself veer off until I am leaning heavily into the wind, supported only by its capricious gusts. This is the trust I place in creativity. To let go and understand the influence of invisible forces is to know true freedom. Controlling fate is as impotent an idea as influencing the course of a thermal. Greatness is harnessing that energy to create something beautiful.

Pangs.

Elixir of rejuvenate, these thick, dark drops of sleep have stained perspective with a clarifying hue. Washing away the confusion, and leaving the fresh taste of jubilee, it is with an excited and happy mind that I wake. Now roused, the craving for creation rumbles in my belly, a hunger that can only I can satisfy. And so my task lies set before me. All I must do is answer the call.

sleep[in]

building on the success of madness, but taking a necessary moment to recharge, i've come to realize this is an endurance race run in intervals. though rest can be deceiving, i took my chance. Let's hope it pays off...

made of madness

And here begins the decent into the insanity that is creativity. Spurred on by the violence of a deadline, yet giddy with excitement, this mixed bag of emotions sits nervously upon the seat of my soul. This less than ideal situation is intended to subconsciously draw out the honesty from the situations by eliminating the time for worry and second guessing. Here upon the doorstep of my own adventure, it is but a series of gut-check decisions that separates me from my intended creation.

leaky

The final stage of daydreaming, where the visions of the night bleed effortlessly across the conscious plane. Delightful distractions fade in and out like dissipating cloud formations, disappearing just before one can make out their shape. These peripheral pioneers, dewy imaginations which condense and drop, splattering in the mind's eye as color, shape, and sound. Creation, pure and simple. Like blood it flows and nourishes us all. Without it, the world regresses into a monochromatic pale. So I will never stop.

Choice Decisions

There is a fear unlike others, in that it is benevolent and guiding. It is the fear that comes with new endeavors, the chill which shakes our insides with nervous excitement. Come to me as a result of decisive change, I'm now bolstered by the threat of failure. Gravity and consequence give me a boundary, and the fear of falling keeps me on the path. These are the constraints of progress; how I know it's right.

eyes of the storm

The undercurrent of tension sizzles in an electric wavelength. Peaks and valleys, distorted by the pressure of expectation, compress and flatten, squeal and pop without regard for pitch or purpose. Lost amongst the buzz, the calm mind sits surrounded, threatened on all fronts by the impending onslaught of the banal and trite. Perspective, it seems, is a must have utility; the ability to see beyond the present superficialities and into the heart of the matter. It is with a clear conscience, and without any notion of fear, that the truth will manifest itself.

Search/Party

It does not sit on obvious steps, awaiting discovery. Enjoyment comes from a true understanding of the heart's desire, and satisfying it in whatever ways possible. Sometimes finding the balance of satisfaction means digging through old wounds, or uncovering buried secrets. But the operative thought behind it all is to "do what must be done." Creativity cannot be questioned if it's meant to thrive. It must grow unhindered in the light of acceptance. Enjoyment means finding the fun in something miserable, making bearable that which is decidedly not, not because one wants to, but because one has to.

f[un]comfortable

Lethargy grips my thoughts; so strong a hold for such a weakening force. The will to move forward strains and shouts its desire, but blanketed by this comfortable fog, I cannot hear the cries. I'm wrapped in the safety of myself. A false security, as it's also the most dangerous place to be, prone to panic, criticism, and seemingly always on the verge of self-loathing. But interruption knocks, and in the moment there is purpose. It isn't much, but it's enough to get me started.

As the crow flies.

Sapped, the majesty collapsing. Entwined within the tale of another's debt. But as society's realization grows, it is the carriage of concession which must grease its squeaky wheels, for awareness stands in marked disillusion, the treasure map in tatters at its feet. No more dreams of riches rumble openly through the turgid air. It is an unchained reaction, an inevitable end.

Thermo | meter

Heat's arrival on the scene so late sweats nervousness through the arid air. Fertile landscape, lost in preparations of the dormant months, stands confused by such degrees. Highs in triple digits signals an unruly shift, and apologies trickle in slowly if at all. Catastrophe's only a shiver away, a short shake of a faulty spine to bring this city to its knees. The oddness of it all does not bode well.

sleep[less]

Nonsense gibberish and chatterbox lies, this is the fate of inconvenience as it waits for introspection. The tossing and turning of an unsound state of awareness ensures a pensive earthquake in the center of the mind. The hold of intuition loosens, and the understated grasp falters in the face of serene abandonment. It is a cruel and lonely ache, devoid and inert; an ill-timed frustration of the recompense.

Fragments

A disconnected rendering, alive and overshadowed, wanders through the wasteland of a superficial construct. Unaware of its surroundings, it pervades into perception, and leaks a luminance that blinds. In the face of such awareness clouds a dream of simpler times, an alternate remembrance of people and places from long ago. Yet even innocence is not safe from this ironic intimation, as visions turn corrupt with elements of the present.

No use for excuse.

Flow must come organically, as an outpouring of inspiration. Knowing that unlike so many other instances in life, this is an endeavor I want to pursue lends an ease to the difficulty of the task. Not to say it makes it easy, rather, it simply adds an enjoyability to the grueling nature of it all. But despite whatever pleasure derived, there is now a deadline, hard and fast approaching. Constraints and pressure are essential elements for success, and now I have them.

Immolation

A fool returns to the fire, hands still burnt from an over-zealous reach. Enticed by the lapping flame, again he reaches for something which he knows will hurt him, and a lesson stands unlearned. Perhaps this irony dawns on him, or perhaps he is merely overcome by the urge to belong to something greater than himself, but this moth of a man staggers forwards towards a realization, and falls into the flames. Driven by a covetous desire, the fool fuels the blaze, but consumed by the conflagration, he ends up used. Just another expired life, smoldering its last mistake.

Surf's up.

Morning brings awakenings. This underlying swell of grievance, ballooning up and airing out, spreads itself like ocean tide. A force benign on the surface, yet surging with a depth of power beneath. Crashing and flooding, the only outcomes for the shore as this movement shifts towards its inevitable conclusion. The momentum has long been underway, slowly growing at first, but now moving, only builds upon itself. It's a confusing time, but trust in the hierarchy of need to sort the priorities of the masses.

Do drops.

Thin and steady rain streams down outside the window, intent on proving gravity. The blank gray sky looks on passively, all at once there, yet absent. It seems early in the year for weather. Perhaps even the storm clouds know the end is coming soon, and merely wish to beat the rush. Whatever the reason, the moisture's welcome, at least for now. The rain whips sideways, slanted; the only other indication of the wind lies in the swaying of the tree's thin branches as it bends in the breeze. It's soothing.

Punctuated Destruction.

The jackhammer sounds as the men pound ground, carving into the hillside. In an accelerated erosion, the pneumatic rumble chips away chunks of millennia, hot with the ironic intent of building. Waves of violent sound reverberate the clash of metal and stone, singing a song of little earthquakes.

Returned to the fray.

Cast back into the shadow of the unknown, encircled by a surreptitious darkness, sight becomes an oft too leaned upon crutch. Intuition serves to illuminate a wavelength previously unnoticed, and the reliance on the heart begs questions which penetrate far deeper into the understanding of surrounding resistance. Now, dressed in explanation, that which lay previously confused stands erect in the face of inquisition. It resolves itself in choice and the decision to habituate, making sense from rationalized emotion.