Before I start, I will warn and apologize for my presentation; my mind is chaotic. I also apologize for even making this thread. Roots of vanity. So, I am a weak-willed creature. If one commands to do, I am a good worker; but I tell myself: "Read. Expand. Create." I flop as a fish might. It is like I do not know what my ocean is. So I flop. Ah, but there is the intense urge to do as I tell myself, but despite myself, I manage to falter day in and day out. The mind decays with time. Frustration builds and questions of arrival come. I was not like this quite so before. I wrote my D1, right? Discovered its garbage nature, trashed it -- re-fucking-vise -- and then as the mind collides with itself, ideas mount in such a manacle way that nothing occurs. A fear to create develops. It is hard to describe. It is simply as if a wall of screaming insanities (each dictating to do one thing or the next) assails endlessly. Paralysis. Feeling as if work has been done but halted at the start. Arise tomorrow. Pursue myself as a dog might, forgetting itself in chase for its tail. The repetition -- and realization of the absurdity of everything. Fall further. Cyclical. I am saying that nothing happens in this bout. Thoughts come: "Ah, but what if I strive to capture this -- this feeling battering?" How to do so? I must abandon form, plunge into the realms that discard all convention, strive to capture the abstract. But this recklessness creates the fear before that paralyzed. You feel this inner need for perfection. You understand that abstractness could easily need more exactness. You think: "Fuck, I despise to be published, and I never want it, yet this feeling does not remove my yearn to fine-tune and sculpt." This is good, though, yes? But fear and paralysis, and the mind -- the subconsciously conscious self -- is ravaging the background recesses of the mind; and pressure mounts as you press to the floor awaiting to break. I pause now to even acknowledge that I am even saying this. My circumstance does not permit such feelings. Yes the bottle of the brain, the "being" addressing the "being." Sorry, I digress. (Ha! You say, "Digress from what? You have no orientation.") What I mean: There is a point when I wish to rid myself of this idea of scrupulousness. I wish to abandon myself in an effort to express myself, yet I need myself to do this. But there is this repeatable failure of the self to do for the self. I understand, borrow Nike: Just do it. I agree. But this seems strangely insurmountable. It seems impossible to simply keep up with existence, despite the light work load. Caught within perceptions. The existential. But it's all shit, right? It is. Again I wander. But return. Does anyone else feel this? The difficulty of applying the self? The fear to create because of ineffability. It truly becomes hard orient oneself, as my post so explains. The ocean turns out to be the mind. It is a kettle, turned to boil, and everything meshes into an inescapable steam. And further, to abandon this idea of a "great work." Fuck Wagner. After all -- who the fuck am I? Why do I need to make something that is good? It's like I can't bring myself down; it's like I've got this bullshit idea that I shouldn't make crap. Sincerely, what even is that? It seems like arrogance; yet, I do not disagree with the pursuit. It just meddles. Of course, simply do. Do. Move. But stumbling down the hall as if drunk but lucid. I again apologize for this post; it is selfishness. Remove it if it seems to superfluous (and I do not mean that in a self-belittling way but earnestly).