It's 11:41. I had resolved to do this every day, and yet without resistance I was willing to give up on my 4th, maybe 5th day. Why? Because out of the multitude of things I want to say, and ways in which I could say them, I had myself decided that I could not, that I was simply incapable of any serious output.
Yet in all of this I am deeply aware that it is only through the practice and correction of the tangible that I can progress. For some reason it is without regard for that fact that my mind becomes paralyzed at its own thoughts flowing from my mind through my body and leaving my fingers. The feeling is that of a secret being shared in public. Something intimate being withdrawn from myself and leaving my possession. As if I no longer have control over the form.
It has become concrete and thus reality. It will show all of my flaws, which in any light is to be desired. Yet my body does not want for it. It is bizarre how the soul can yearn for something that the body all but denies, and now my meditation shifts toward the desire to understand the methods of bending of body to the obedience of soul.