I didn’t know what to write today.
My fingertips landed with hollow thuds on the k-e-y-b-o-a-r-d.
The front of my brain throbbed along, pulsing like a jellyfish.
I picked up a pencil, and I tapped the eraser between my eyes.
All in time to the mental locomotion.
Layer after layer, I eroded skin and skull.
Then, squish. It felt like a jellyfish.
The music stopped.
Then, an itch. It felt like velcro.
Layer after layer, I searched piles of papers.
All to find to some auditory consolation.
I picked up a fork, and I raked the tines behind my ear.
The back of my neck tore away, ripping like velcro.
My flesh landed with hollow thuds on the k-e-y-b-o-a-r-d.
I didn’t know what to write today.
A Quote from Mastery by Robert Greene
“Wolfgang [Mozart] acquiesced, but as time went on he grew increasingly depressed. The music he was being forced to write seemed so hopelessly dead and conventional; it had no relation to what was going on inside him.”
Mastery, Robert Greene (p. 172)
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