I wake up and there is a pit in my stomach. It’s blazing hot outside and I feel obliged to be happy as if my inner world should match the outer world but it’s not like that. My intention was to wake up with a positive mind and do the things I wanted to do in order to progress but I feel so lethargic. It’s like I have a large black dog hanging from my back. That would be weird to have a dog clinging to your back. A lazy dog no-doubt.

I muster the energy to go downstairs and borrow the hoover. At least I could say I have done something constructive. I haul my ass downtown with only one thing on my mind, ‘coffee.’ That should do the trick but still that pit of sadness. That pit of anger. I should meditate. I should appreciate. DO my list of things to be grateful for as they keep telling me via social media. But I know it will not work because I know me. And why push aside this sorrow? Better to investigate it or just sit with it. Use it as the food to fuel my writing.

The great thing about writing through the blog medium is that it is writing without ambition or expectation, for some of us. Normally there is too much pressure behind a novel or a short story, for fame, or money, and you end up writing for that expectation, rather than writing for the sheer joy and fun of it. That’s when the real writing breaks through. The real you comes alive. It’s what they want but you can’t always give because of modern pressures to achieve. This blog seems fine to me. If it gets attention then great but I am not out to monetize it. If someone approaches me and offers a writing gig then so be it but I am not desperate for it.

Like enlightenment or the appearance of a teacher. If it happens it happens. But it cannot be forced and the karmic wheels that were set in tow were done so a billion lifetimes ago, so far back you don’t want to know. When the idea of a God was a laughable suggestion. When the deities plucked fruits from the Knowledge Tree of Babylon. When Angels flew around without no care because there were no humans to consider. And all was good in the omniverse with no hierarchy or levels. Just trillions of fantastic light-beings dancing on the pin-head of existence. All contained within a single hymn. A note. A bar. The one that Mozart wrote. That Nietzsche discussed. Dionysian. Apollian. Now where did that black dog go?