Slowly moving through the rhythm of sound.  That sliding, pounding that loops in my head. Then the sharp pain as I focus to much.  It splits my head wide, a cleaver like instance and then it’s gone. I lean back my head in the chair thinking that might help, but all it does is make me remember the other pain in my neck.  Life’s little lessons about a sedentary job.  I should get up and move but the code is flowing from my mind, in a swirling mass.  If I stop now it’ll be gone, like a wispy stream of fog in the morning sun, and the end will be that much further away. There is a magical space in my mind that opens up and spills forth a litany of statements.  That creating, magical space where there is an instant translator from human to machine.  It’s an unconscious slip into that space, never conscious. Almost dream like, sometimes it seems to be a total take over.  The flow from the brain, to the hands, to the screen. Flowing and twisting the syntax.  Not even caring that I don’t usually know how to type.  It seems to have embedded that ability in itself not relying on my body’s so called skill.

There is in clean code a simplicity, a beauty.  An almost erotic excitement in the creation. Pushing further towards what can be done, never mind if it should or shouldn’t be, just that it might be.  It serves a purpose that creation.  It proves to ones self that the spark hasn’t died in some form that’s been created over and over and over, or some other mundane thing.  These minor miracles are meat to help people, the complex creation an ode to the singular thought that perhaps if this person were to posses the ability to do this one thing easier, better, faster, then perhaps then they too might feel the joy of the day.  There is always that hope.

Should it be otherwise, then it begins.  The dark slid to the bottom of the creative ramp.  The feelings of despair, uselessness.  Ugly feelings and thoughts into a infinite loop of disgust and unhappiness. Those points at which there is a block whether mental or otherwise, which cause you to dry up.  The external triggers become dulled with time, thoughtlessness and carelessness of external events may slice open the early wounds and send down torrents of self doubt and leave the raw pain of inadequacy and disaffection.

The brilliance of self creation and the darkness of self destruction.

gryphn shorts

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.