Scars.

Hm...

I'm stuck in a loop.

I write, fervently seizing the moment like a gladiator descrying victory unveil in the most opportune moment to strike.

But somewhere along the way, I stop. The flickers of the pen cease, a ballpoint voyager crusading through the flux of ink with seeking strokes of desperation coming to a crossroads. I falter to its wispy sermons, the pen; a cattleman to the thoughts. The instrument used to muse spirit into the reprisal of word is the same instrument used to consume the all-looming despair in insouciance, until life is one daily dose of a placebo - growing indifferent to what I write not due to its contents, but because there's better out there.

This is when I dissipate into the husk of obscurity, as a neural response to the nigh infinite mental affliction of my own sub-doing. Soon after, I lose traction, cease to gain momentum, and, ultimately, fall short of expectation.

But perhaps, therein lies the paradox: the pen, that relentless cattleman of thought, must also be the architect of its own liberation. For it is not in the perfection of the stroke, nor in the unbroken momentum of the hand, that true creation is found, but in the very act of wrestling with the void, of teetering on the precipice between brilliance and despair.

To falter is to be human; to rise, divine. The cessation of the ink's flow is not a failure, but a necessary breath—a pause in the symphony where the next note awaits its birth. The indifference you feel is but a shadow, a specter born of comparison, that fades when faced with the light of self-acceptance.

I say this to say: write not to conquer, but to explore. Let the pen wander through the unknown, tracing the contours of your soul, where the greatest work lies not in what is perfected but in what is revealed. Embrace it, for it is the flow of thought that matters more. All that rise must fall. It is only when you rise back up again that you realize you’ve never truly fallen to begin with.