The art of.

Sometimes it takes a lifetime – of constant trial and error, of walking around with your eyes closed, listening to the forest, of standing in showers day in and day out, feeling the water fall on your increasingly disfigured hair, of downing drinks at the bar with the prospect of dancing on the dance floor, knowing all too well you’ll never make it to the dance floor, of meditating, or trying to meditate, of reading and rereading a book by a great author or an author you were recommended or some author you once admired, of sitting in front of a blank paper, of calling out a name, any name, hoping for a response, of turning up the volume, decibel by decibel, of playing the same note on the guitar, of staring into the light, if not the Sun, though you know you shouldn’t stare at the Sun, of howling at the moon, albeit a very low howl so as to not wake anyone, of staying up nights, experimenting with the effects darkness and solitude have on the mind, of exploring solitude not only during the night, of wandering off with a friend you have no common language with, of staring into a loved one’s eyes, of kissing, of making love, of regretting one or the other or all of it, of slapping yourself on the cheek, harder, harder still, of focussing on your breath, or the lack thereof, of fixating on that ache in your right knee that’s not quite as bendy as it used to be, of lying naked in the sun, of running until your lungs give out, then your legs, of doodling on a page in a book that was supposed to be important to you by now, of cutting your hair, of making love to yourself, of dressing and undressing, of switching around in your seat, of recapturing your dreams, of disengaging with the real world, of abandoning drafts and friends and family, of pretending, of not letting go, of trying to convince yourself – to get in the zone.

Sometimes it only takes a second.


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