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Too much coffee, man.

I’m trying to hang onto inspiration, but I can only handle so much coffee. Flow exists betwixt stability and madness. A delicate balance. Both extremes are a state of disease in their own way. One way you have mindlessness of complacency, and the other you have mindlessness of directionless passion. The sweet spot is where you indulge in something creative and destructive at the same time. You draw, write, paint, program, talk, and babble. But not for money. Not for respect. It is only for the love and hate of your craft, upon which you have bound yourself. You will feel the heaven and hell that is inspiration and flow. To be anything less is to be dead. Life is a mixture of pleasure and pain, joy and sorrow. One is incomplete without the other. You will eternally writhe in an equation that is always out of balance and always imperfect, working for and and against itself in bittersweet joy and an aching for just one more breath in this form with every precious heartbeat. Aching for something just out of reach with a desire that could very possibly melt elemental gods of fire. Every heartbeat is a dare. Every movement of your hands an event of unrestrained evil in the eyes of a world that would bind you severely into a planned life of melancholy emptiness. Now, would you like another cup of coffee?

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