My stream of consciousness, as it were, was dammed by the other side of the brain:
“What are you writing?”
“What are you trying to say?”
“What does it mean?”
“What madness will people think overcame you?”
All these questions until the madness was crowded out.
The Self-Editor or the Self-Censor, call it what I may — the governor (I love what that word means, it explains everything), Pressfield’s Resistance, Godin’s Dip — Every creative seems to have this internal struggle. The poet who flies with inspired not-madness-but-music-that sings-her-soul and is whacked from the sky by those questions even as she soars —
The quotidian — the practical needs of the day — collides with the Transcendence of the Soul in an everyday, ever-spiraling dance.
(I almost wrote “everyday, ever-spiraling fight,” but no, the creative soul does not want a fight, seeking not a death struggle, but a dance.)
The words want to dance. The face wants to smile. The chaos wants to sing. Muscles want to relax.
Book shelves are full of dancing souls.