this has veered into the realm
of compulsion
an addiction to the game,
an unending fascination
with the trial, the gauntlet,
enamored — or maybe even obsessed —
with the hurdles, fixated with relentless fervor
on how to blast through the barriers
how to overcome the obstruction —
the obstacles, the odds — however daunting —
have become allies… best friends,
however sick and ugly and punishing they seem
compulsion, urge…
the electric reflex to try again, to seek more chances,
to blast through the wall when over, under, and around
never seem to be available options
compulsion — can’t stop
it’s become more than persistence…
it’s now a solid state of eternal need,
hunger, desire,
near fatalistic, deterministic
pursuit of this, this thing —
this thing that has chosen me as much as I’ve chosen it
and its fertile fire having already wreaked havoc within
will now consume reality, which was already little more
than dry kindling to begin with,
begging to be set aflame
Garbage Notes:
It’s interesting—I came across this one and thought, man this really shows how obsessive I can be sometimes, about my writing, about doing things that are sort of difficult or impossible.
I don’t know what’s wrong with me sometimes and why I get this compulsion to do things that are either insanely difficult or have the worst odds of succeeding. But, such is the life sometimes. It’s about the work, sure, but there’s something about the climb, something about the challenge.
Sometimes I don’t just want to jump the hurtles, I want to destroy them.
Specifically, the challenges I allude to in this piece refer to the incredibly daunting market of selling the short story. I’ve had some luck, but sales are still few and far between. It feels like a miracle to even get anything accepted in a magazine. So, when it happens I’m on cloud nine, euphoric—it’s intoxicating. It really is like a drug.
I see stuff sometimes about gambling addicts—or any addict really—and maybe it’s not right to compare, but sometimes I see certain similarities. Frightening parallels. It does at times feel like I’m addicted to trying. Intent on eating myself alive just to get my ideas out into the world. To spread my voice far and wide. It’s awful…but it’s also beautiful.
Aren’t you glad you get to watch it unfold? I kind of am, and I’m the one dragging myself through the mud, rejection after rejection. It’s very difficult. But it’s my compulsion. The word—my compulsion. Night after night, day after day. Ramble after ramble. Mainlined persistence. I can’t stop.
Franco Amati 2023
Mainlined persistence. I can’t stop.
It’s awful…but it’s also beautiful.
Those two sentences. The extremes. Why are they so appealing?
Great to hear your voice! Love the poem. I feel that way too sometimes.