484 words.

Sometimes I get frustrated at how long it takes to get better at these streams of consciousness.

I once believed how fast I can bash out one of these is a function of how tightly-connected the subconscious mind and the consciousness are. The tighter the connection, the less time it takes to have these words spilling onto the screen from a hazy nebula of thoughts.

There doesn’t seem to be much progress in getting the words to spill out here. The fact that I’m worried about it is indicative of some anxiety, of needing to be somewhere. Is that a state I’ll want for everyone?

Wanting to be somewhere tells of either a profound dissatisfaction of the current state, or a chronic inability to appreciate where you are. While wanting to create a better reality is perfectly respectable, where does it all end? There will always be the endless hedonistic treadmill to continue running on, sighting the light at the end of the tunnel.

Half of my struggles now (or rather a large part) is recognising I’m on this treadmill, pursuing an ever-distant utopia. The other half is not knowing what that utopia looks like. Something I’d like to try soon is having a word vomit on the impression of that utopia. I wrote before that writing gives depth into ideas, and having this impression deeper can shape the direction towards crafting it.

A little dry now, and admittedly I haven’t been the most consistent in building this habit. Cathedrals are not built in a single day, and the surest way to fail is only to place blocks when one feels like it. The environment must shape the behaviour, and consistency can be shaped through creating time and space for the desired actions.

I’d like to convince myself that this project (doing word vomits) is something that I’m engaging in for its own sake, but there are ways to tell myself that isn’t the real truth. Periodically, I stop and check the word count, for a measure of how close it is to the end. It always feels like a significant undertaking, even through it is as simple as setting a timer for 12 minutes and letting it run.

On some days, it feels like squeezing water from a rock. long spent from a year’s of responsibilities and labour. The month’s break feels scarcely enough to fully recover for the trials of the next year.

And yet, it feels like many of these ideas are due a thorough treatment; unpolished diamonds in a hunk of soil. Already I recognise familiar turns of phrase which I feel a kinship for. Writing these word vomits is then a heaving of the soil onto the surface, so the sun can shine on it once more.

Sometimes it’s nice at how easy it goes.