Ink Stains & Soul Searching

Lost In The Algorithms — Daily Odyssey # 17

Leaning against the counter of a coffee shop, I exchange a knowing glance with the barista — she’s the gatekeeper to my writing ritual when I’m not playing all of these other roles.

“The usual existential crisis in a cup?” she said, with a smirk that knows too much.

“Make it a double shot of despair today,” I said, my voice tinged with the kind of sarcasm that only comes before caffeine hits the bloodstream.

As I wait, I think about the chaotic art of writing ( or any art for the matter) — a craft that’s less about creating masterpieces and more about stitching together the tattered fragments of my soul.

Rick Rubin said, focus on the art, not the applause. So, writing is about painting with words, not for the gallery crowds but for the sheer, unadulterated joy of splashing ink across the void.

Writing is less a hobby and more a lifeline. The jigsaw piece makes sense of the rest and turns my life’s chaos into a semblance of art. Days without writing leave me feeling like a fraud, a phony in a carnival of genuine talents.

Earth-shattering revelations? Nah, but who says my muddled thoughts aren’t their own kind of groundbreaking?