I draw until my wrists get sore.
I practice music until my fingers cramp.
I write and write and write and write.
I write stories. I write stories about stories. I write stories tangentially linked with other stories in ways too obscure for anyone other than me to know about.
I expose truth and then bury it beneath a great obfuscating mound of rock and dirt and grass.
A tree stands upon that mound and there are leaves upon the tree. Each leaf contains an intricate pattern of veins that mirrors the infinite.
So enamoured by the venation of the leaves we forget the tree, the grass, the dirt, the rock and we forget that truth that’s buried beneath.
I write until my hands get sore.
Again I get it wrong; I get it wrong.
I draw until my wrists begin to ache.
What are these, the scribbles of a child?
I practice playing chords until, frustrated, I bash my fists against the keys.
I write and write and write and write and write and write and write.
Good morning, Monday.