Never ending cocoon

Warren Ellis posted this to his website last night. While I believe there's a hint of mockery to it, wherein deep down, he loves his life, I also long for the reputations that deadlines hold. Not only does it add fuel to the motivation fire, deadlines feed that hunger to be needed and read.

This is the stage most writers never make: gestation. I sit here on a Sunday afternoon, bordering on drowsy, with the urge to put pen to paper pounding in my chest. Paycheck job was hard this week, and will be for the next month. I'm going to be physically exhausted at the end of days to come, yet guilt over not reading my The Elements of Style drives me to want to drink. I should give myself a break, because I'll have time after I loose my job. Yet, time weighs on me like the weight of the world on my shoulders.

I feel as if my wings are trapped to my back. Squirming and wiggling, they're never quite comfortable trapped in this cocoon. Yet, I'm not strong enough to break free. I cannot imagine living the rest of my life in the circular, compact husk. While I know I'll never be comfortable, that's not in the cards for any artist, I wish for a different type of discomfort now.