Typing Furiously

Typing furiously.
What's the point?
I'm exploring, imploring, finding and endeavouring for something anything everything.
Typing furiously.
I feel free and worthy all at once, like I'm better than I am or will be or ever was.
Typing furiously.
There is a point, I feel it.
There is structure, I'm in it.
There is life, I breathe it and love it and leave it not.
I live it.
I always have.
Always will.
Typing furiously.
When I do it, it's achievement.
It's something from nothing.
From a nothing.
Typing furiously.
What I want.
What I need.
What I should and would do if only, if only I had it inside me, if only it was there
to be found.
Typing furiously.
Sometimes rushing, fast fast fast, gushing, rush rush rush.
Sometimes slow, trickling, waterfall of consciousness.
Never a stream.
Typing furiously.
Cathartic outpouring of emotion I don't know and can't identify.
Years of it, months of knowing, days of trying, hours of succeeding, minutes of
results, seconds of achievement.
Tick tick tick.
Typing furiously.
Work work work.
Do something.
Don't do nothing.
Anything anything ANYTHING!
Typing furiously.
The mad genius, the desolate soul, the aloof separation of human non-interaction,
complete within himself yet so so unfinished, unrefined, untapped and involuntary.
The hero.
Typing furiously.
Never stopping because it will never cease.
It will always drive me.
I will not be defeated.
I will not bend.
Typing furiously.
Every time, every thought.
Every dream.
Every impulse.
They will never be pure.
I will never be true.
Typing furiously.
I am tainted, I am stained.
I'm diluted, I am rain.
Every cloud.
Typing furiously.
When the tiredness comes I fight it off.
For no reason.
For any reason.
For whatever reason I feel another surrender is another day wasted.
I should but I will not.
I can not.
Not again.
Typing furiously.
It's so hard being me right now.
Not knowing what the days bring except for the nothing.
I'm so sick to death.
To the stomach.
I'm done.
Typing furiously.