Flow

I think I've found my flow. All of a sudden the words are writing themselves, they sound and feel right, and they mean what I'm thinking–what a rare experience. Words like to skirt the issues floating around in your brain, too concrete to really express, too vague to really understand. And for all the dislike I have for Ayn Rand's writing, I think it snapped me into this state. It was lying in wait, concealed behind an impenetrable brick wall, and the Utopian descriptions of Galt's Gultch and its inhabitants reasons for being there opened a door that I didn't see this whole time. When she spoke of the words that have been inked on my wrist for 3 years now–truth, love, joy–and I knew that she understood them in the way that I meant them, the dam overflowed. Understanding begat my acceptance that what I am thinking about is ready to be heard...