To step into the abyss,
to find some kind of relief.

Photo by 愚木混株 Yumu on Unsplash
Days are gone figuring out. I have let go of dopamine maxxing. Getting from one activity to another. Putting on some music in case there is nothing to do. Watching movies while working.

I have led a lie my whole life of being a multitasker, to the extent of having things being played during video games.

I missed the lonesome.
I vividly remember whenever I had to go out, the silence would kill me. To sit with the thoughts that I forced down.

The sudden shift is unknown, but could be linked to a passage I read in a book. It moved along the lines of not selecting a topic or thought and writing about it, but to let go of thoughts. Write what comes to mind.

The exact words from the book were:
“he
feels obligated to go on talking about Autumn Rain, because that, he
feels, is the subject. Well, it isn’t the subject. You don’t know what the
subject is.”

The Triggering Town by Richard Hugo.

In doing so, I liked being with my thoughts. I was getting rid of them for no reason at all. Instead of bloating, I liked them. The instant rush, much like the romanticized concepts of writing.

The mind that was creative, but forced to constraints.
Forced to be fed.

Now, when I get to a scene in a show where there is much to unpack, I stop and pause, take in, write what comes to mind. This cycle brings me to a chain which is much related to each other, but unique.

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