Add some sugar and spice and everything nice, that's what good food is made of; a dash of care and some salt to spare to ensure my taste buds will love. But the soda's not right and the chocolate's not light, so the creation does not rise. Into the trash it goes unabashed, but at least it's not onto my thighs. I get a new spoon, a new bowl, a new goal, and this time it will be right. I mix and I stir without being deterred, the result is my tongue's delight . . . .
The needle plunges between two strands of thread, takes hold, and tugs back through the trail it has taken. A loop has been made, progress appears plausible. The strand wraps itself around the hook that offsets slipping and makes another passage through the filaments. A single stitch is complete, a stitch in the chasm I slip into slowly if the aperture is left in place. The longer the gorge is gaping, the further I fall, and the probability of crawling back to the surface seems staggering. So I press onward, allowing the process to repeat, ensuring the stitches seam the stretch of the slit. Progress seems solid. This pursuit is practically complete – that is until it happens, the inevitable . . . a mistake, an error, a sin if you must, and the stitches are unseamed, ending up further behind than where I have first begun. Relentlessly, the process repeats, and new stitches are made once again, suturing the split in my soul.
The fingers pound away; the letters, words, sentences, paragraphs, and pure genius appear before my eyes. I can't believe that something I've never done for pleasure before, and in fact once dreaded, is coming to me so easily. The words flow flawlessly to the page and I am pleased past pleasure. Who knew I've had this in me all these years. I put it to rest for the evening and upon my return I am revolted. How could I ever have deemed this prose passable, let alone pure genius? I'm embarrassed, no mortified. Whatever makes me think I have the talent for such tricks? Why am I wasting my time on the seven or so ideas I've started and have been unable to complete? I know I've gone mad; I'm beyond mental . . . . The fingers are relentless though; they return to their pounding undaunted.
No one is more critical of my adored avocations and the respective presentation of these leisurely pursuits than me. I am constantly unsure of my performance in the aforesaid arts, and nothing boosts my self-belief more than being praised on a product I've produced from these pastimes, because I have a penchant to be paramount in every task I choose to tackle and I blossom upon the prospect of being the best. I often opt for the path to perfection, which is viewed by some as a disparaging part of my personality. Nonetheless, when I have a perpetual passion for something, I am powerless to release it until I deem it mastered. I constantly question my conquest of such precision and wonder why I hold onto the assumed unattainability, but then I ponder what pleases me when the cake is crumbling, and it's hooking onto these hankerings that bestow the baptism my soul seeks. Clutching onto the craving to accomplish the ideal is the very thing that dissuades me from drifting downward. As much as my sanity requires religious routine, my soul forces me to fulfill my fervor. Baking is beneficial for averting aggravating anxiety, crocheting calms the concerns that constantly cloud my thoughts, and writing is way to release the woes that warp my wits. The process of each one of these is critical catharsis for my spirit and support for my soul. This blog empowers me to write away my worries and enjoy the essence of my existence. So in the end I must say thank you to all who frequent my frivolous features of feeling, and for allowing my funky therapy to invade your thoughts. I appreciate more than words can say.
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