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ridiculous metaphorical trash
[The laissez-faire of the day before has once again turned against itself.]
While the words in my head attempt to manipulate and mold themselves into coherence, my malleable hand finds itself submissive with the freezing thought of the immovable type that has set itself up in the base of my fingers. They have managed to resist (once again) my will, instead choosing to ignore me. They write themselves, inscribing their will and fancy on a piece of a tree, while images and memories flow through vessels, doing their outmost to break out and spill themselves over the paper like the red-blooded ink that I wish flowed from the tip of my pen.
The impotent signs of my hand's inability to Écrit anything of consequence has been poked and prodded by my mind into a blistering sore of pus and creativity. Words, phrases, and ideas that try their very best to bleed through are inevitably discovered and thwarted at the last second by my brain, who, trying to prove itself, mixes them into incoherence and proudly oozes them out for me to glare at.
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