Bring them to my feet, for my shrine awaits its sacrifices.
I want them bloody. The pulsing life, once stolen from the sleeping spills upon the golden floor, staining my torn feet with circles of raw form.
With that sacrifice comes this text. These words, pulled forth from my being like stubborn rotten teeth with long tangled roots. The holes go deep and the novocaine has long worn off. There are a dozen things I would rather do…make some lunch, work on a photo, do some internet research…easy things, tasks that come without so much effort, and therefore, are slightly more enjoyable to this temperamental machine. This pleasure whore, willing to sacrifice any gains, any person or space for one moment of pleasure.
This is the witch I face. Her eyes sparkle with the stolen breath of dragons. Their shape ebbs with each subtle gesture, their layered color whispers with familiarity, yet always remain strangely distant.
She aims to trick. She coos that the day is long. Her ventriloquist’s voice reminds me relentlessly that easy tasks can be done first. Lunch is important, and she is hungry. Or perhaps we should rest, or read a book.
But I know, at some point today, I must write. As much as I would like to forget, to hide behind a thick wall of lies that promises pleasure and rest, I cannot. Saving my most dreaded task until the end of the day throws a black stain upon the entire day’s labor. The fear awaits my attention, the dreaded task grows strong with each avoided glimpse. Never fully gone, never completely hidden.
Like black rain clouds on the horizon, their persistent thunder is a constant distraction, and because of this, my attention can never focus on anything else. The simple tasks, the "easier" tasks are not more enjoyable. They are only a piece of the continuing lie. Every action is slightly tainted, a bit more heavy and labored.
Like a persistent tick upon a monkey, the habit of procrastination sucks me of vital blood. By avoiding that which is difficult, it stays within, sitting in my heart like a restless raven, draining me of attention and raw energy with each passing hour.
There is one thing to do. I step to the edge of the cliff. The valley below is black, darker than any I have seen, but this is the heart of my fear. I plunge, head first, directly into the center of this chasm. It is This I avoid, and into This I must fall.
The dark pool of energy opens. I begin shifting words. Fingers begin to type, moving faster, responding to each new thought as it springs forth, faster and faster. It hurts, my neck twinges, my fingers ache. My hands cannot keep up with the sentences that emerge from somewhere inside. I exchange a sentence for a thought. A phrase takes shape.
It is in this space that I may Work. This strangely foreign land that does not grant favors. Each step must be earned. The very road asks for homage, the surrounding trees require my attention. This is darkness that must chosen, to avoid this is to avoid the possibility of change, of Transformation. Do not avoid the spiders, do not jump over the puddles. They are the path, they are its keepers, they are the guides.