A poem on the consistently overwhelming “flow state”.
Thoughts continuously fall pour out of the mind, without prompt, or desire.
Like a large, hoarding dam.
It bursts — out falling waves of continuous creation.
Thinking. Poetry. Calculation.
Walks. Art. Work. Calls.
Hours go by.
There is one thing we often don’t understand is that a person doesn’t control this flow.
They are under its control.
They are possessed by it. Subject to it.
They are a helpless tool, a vessel for the powerful current.
Moments of complete detachment from your body.
Forgetting that fingers are moving.
Forgetting the time.
To use the word “work” masks the depth of the experience.
Work becomes emotional. It carries a nature of artistic expression.
It moves you so much — that you can’t move.
A dying coyote in the woods, exhausting its last out-breath.
It cries out to you in its desire to exist.
Where this process is found, is deep at the bottom of the pool.
The one that holds all the weight of life’s issues and abstract questions.
This large pool, elegantly drains itself out — through a single point that exists between your mind, your fingers, and reality.
A beautiful movie has its segments. It’s different pieces.
As the dreamlike ensemble begins to close — you regain your senses.
You return to the normal.
But always yearning for another ride.