I can get almost monomaniacal about certain things. If the job is repetitive, and there’s an end in sight, even if the space between here and the end is rich with exhaustion, minor wounds, and discomfort, I can hardly stop myself from chugging right along. 

I was that way with the duck coop, which is still in a state of very nearly-done-ness, and I’ve been that way, for the past several days, with regards to that jacket I just wrote about. 

It’s getting there, it too, is in a state of nearly-done-ness. Though, this jacket may be a beautiful metaphor for life more broadly; it’s always in need of a touch up. The thing so barely hangs on that I could likely give it a stitch every day for the rest of my life and it’d be better for it. 

I wish I could turn on my obsessiveness at will. I don’t mind not being able to turn it off, but I just wish I could apply it to things slightly more profitable than repairing decades old french chore coats, or shingling the roof of a duck house. 

I’ll work these things until my fingers bleed, but it’s got to be my fingers that’re doing the work. I can’t do something with my brain to the point of total obsession, it’s got to be easy and a little mindless. 

What does that say then, about my capacity to spin short stories and describe beautifully for hours on end in a text based RPG, while I am unable to successfully write a short story without being sidetracked? The word number is likely far lower; I’ve written novels in Sindome. 

I’ll have to think on it.