It's all there. I can see the ideas clearly, the words form, and they have the substance of inspiration. After doing almost fifty pages last week, I almost feel like I pulled something in my brain. Like a runner limping, the words flow out onto the page clumsily, falling oddly, my true intent tainted somehow. So I went ahead and ate too much, stared at the screen too much, and sought stimulation to the point that I cannot sleep.
I have to laugh at myself.
The protagonists of the story I wrote last week, garner their profound abilities and paranormal powers from sleep, and by staying out of the primordial light. They must rest themselves, enjoy the true comfort of shadow... and not the false darkness that comes with seeking things not ours. My subconscious was speaking through my hands... telling me that even if I would have strength, it is wasted without focus. That focus comes from peaceful slumber, not endless tenacity.
You can't simply decide you'll run a 50 mile marathon one day and be automatically prepared for it the next. Our will is nothing without a tempered vessel to sustain it.
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