A Maze With No Exit

There’s a great video on youtube about this Sushi chef in New York. Customers pay an astounding price to eat at his restaurant. The seating is extremely limited and reservations are made months in advance. I believe the menu is tailored to the specific customers for the day, but I may be mistaken. It’s been a while since I watched it but the important part has stuck with me. The habits that sushi chef had shaped for himself – from arriving hours early, sharpening his knives, and prepping each dish – struck me deeply.

I watched another short documentary recently about a salt farmer in Mexico who is the only person left to keep his family’s tradition of salt making alive. He is poor, breaks his back daily, and has no intent on stopping.

I think about monks from time to time. Each day they rise early and pray. They spend time performing labor-some tasks. They thank God before each meal. Then they go back to work. Each day to them is similar in action, but unique in joy.

Advancements in technology have made information, entertainment, and communication available in a flash. Our minds are jumping every 5 seconds and have been conditioned to demand stimulation at a moment’s notice. Yet we wonder why rates of depression and anxiety continue to climb.

If you’ve ever played a video game, you’re likely familiar with the concept of playing as a single character who continues to improve his skills in order to attain his overarching objective. You retrieve plants and use them to craft medicine and food. You perform tasks and are rewarded with money. You purchase stronger weapons and your enemies are no longer as threatening. It’s fun because it simulates what real life is supposed to be – without the real work.

We can develop habits that place us in the pathway of success. If you want to improve your writing, you can study books. Or you can write. Or you can provide feedback for other writers. If you want to film a special effect you are unfamiliar with, simply type it into youtube and you will find a tutorial that suits your needs.

Each hour of every day we receive the gift of time. We can choose to spend that time developing our own character to progress toward our personal goals, or we can waste that time on consuming the products of others.

There is a generous reward provided to those who routinely devote their time to habitual improvement. The reward is not always the gift of prosperity and acclaim. The reward is found in the joy that comes from living with purpose.

When I find that I am depressed, sad, or anxious, I find that the core of my beliefs has often shifted. I fall so far into consumerism that I have allowed the thoughts, opinions, and products of others shape my worldview. At the center of my flawed belief is the idea that their is no pathway to success, joy, or meaningful production.

I often think of a study that was once conducted with mice. The mice were placed in a maze that had no way to exit. For a time, the mice tried relentlessly. They took new routes and made different turns hoping to find an exit that they had previously passed over. Eventually they stopped searching. Instead they slumped over and rested, finally learning to be content with accepting that escape was an impossibility. But the researchers performing the study waited until this point in time to finally lift a barrier and allow for a clear pathway to freedom. Do you know what the mice did? They remained sleeping, and stopped looking for the exit altogether. They remained trapped, but unbeknownst to them their freedom would have only taken a few more attempts.

Throughout life it’s easy to look back on past efforts and shortcomings and conclude that the success we desire is simply not in the cards for us. “Seek and you shall find.” Though we might not see the path we have been looking for, it does us no good to accept misery as an inevitability. We must get up, we must gather our tools, and we must get to work.

Run Faster

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Dream a dream of words and sleep,

live a life of hope and deeds.

Pray you won’t waste another day,

Waiting for the grey to fade.

Rise today and raise your wings,

To your fears I say you scream:

This world is mean, at times obscene, at times I seek a sign to see.

I say I say I say to you, the truth of fear is it’s untrue.

There is no thing you cannot do, no dream that can’t be made real too.

No reason to lie to yourself and say “I can’t” or “Well I fell.”

For when we struggle we feel some pain, and in that pain we don’t see gain.

But if you rise and rise again, push through the pain and play pretend –

If you run when you can’t see – you’ll finish first, then believe me.

– Thomas M. Watt

Try

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Day by day by day by day,

I laze and wait then think and stay.

Time goes by until tomorrow, then comes some more with the same sorrow.

Tired of mundane depression, scared to try and face rejection…

Or regression to this same state, the ground don’t hurt it’s the fall I hate.

Up and up and up I climbed, ’till my hand slipped and then I fly’d.

Near the top, I climbed that high, but that misstep was my last try.

At first I kicked my arms and legs, reaching to grab what I once played.

And as I fell down from the sky, my eyes did struggle to not cry.

After I crashed I settled in, waiting to die, not re-begin.

I stand and think and think some more, dwell a lot on painful sores.

It hurts it hurts it hurts so bad! How can I climb when I can’t stand?

No more God, no more good doing. No more dreams, no more hope spewing. No more prayers for more good graces, no more thanksgiving, He can’t replace her. No more right track lest I go wrong again, no more rising means no descent.

I’ll just lie here until I die, thinking glumly and seeking highs. Drown my brain in lull and sleep, ease my soul with soul-less deeds.

Checkout that ass, give me that food, I’ll take a drink of scotch or booze. Some more tobacco, a cigarette, I’ll fuck that girl who I just met. Or no I’ll break her little heart, do what I can to make her depart.

Hate and hate and hate some more, destroy my body ’till it’s no more. Blind myself with thoughts of doom, end my hope till it’s no use. Joy is those who next come here, faith are those who stand real near.

How comforting it is to know, way up high, I’ll never go. Never climb that high again, never make another friend. Never fall in love with her, never mistake my own dead-end. Never one more situation, that risks the chance of escalation.

No more sadness, no more pain, just endless, constant, life-refrain. Hurt and hate and destroy some more, until with past I’ve evened the score.

But then today I looked around, and realized I’ve been here a while. And if I climb I’ll fall again, maybe ten times more than ten.

But maybe I should get up and try, before another day goes by.

Maybe pain is one example, of what you get from trying ample.

Where’s that ladder? I’ll climb that bitch, then rejoice in heaven, with those who finished.

– Thomas M. Watt

The Writer of Words

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The words the words the writer of words,

The one who lives for the nouns and the verbs.

Alone in his attic, gone to his room, thinking of something, a plot twist or truth.

The words the words the writer of words.

Prose doth he speak, knows what he knows, sees what folks doesn’t, see what folks done.

Thinking it always, see words less speak, teaching us something, writes what we read.

The words the words the writer of words.

Always he does, tinker his best, lays down the rules, opens his chest.

Let’s us all in, to that weird little mind, provides for us glimpses, of thoughts stuck in time.

The words the words the writer of words.

What is this talent to roll and to go. What is this desire to describe just one rose.

A man of the world? A man of the arts? A maker of stories? A thief of used plots?

What is his trait, why does he think. Why does it matter if we like what we read?

What is this passion? From where does it come? Secluded in nothing, promises to him none.

Not laughing funny, not getting laid, not getting read much, not getting paid.

Still he can’t sleep. Still he does write. Still his pen scribbles. Still he sees light.

Where is this end? At what tunnel he thinks? Does he not know that he’s working for free?

Find his reward, please show it to me! Tell me the prize to take on this disease!

Tell me for once, just give me one word, give me a reason this mans lives so absurd!

Well I’ll tell you reader, I’ll say what I know – The thought of not writing fills writers with woes.

For when pain does come, when life is unfair, there’s two kinds of escapes, addicts all do share –

One is through drugs, sex and bad things. The other’s through art, hearts raised to beauty.

For a man of the world does not see these two lines – he is a fool who thinks they’re both of one kind.

But I tell you something, for I have once seen – A man in his mind accomplish impossible things.

For hours spent thinking, writing fine lines, imagine the way to reach that pinnacle high.

How does that happen, to whom does it go? Who are these writers we have come to know?

They are the ones who persisted the best, they are the writers who pushed on from the rest.

Through all the rejection, the hatred and such, the loss of a lifetime, the miss of one’s touch.

Keep going forward, make that book great. Get that shit perfect, work through night’s late.

At the end of your life, on your death bed, would you rather have quit, or stuck it out to be best?

Is it not worth the struggle, not worth the strife, to see your own words, passed on through time?

I say it is, I say that I do, the words I do love you, now please love me too.

The words

The words

The Writer of Words

– Thomas M. Watt

Casey, Jackson, and Gus

Casey, Jackson, and Gus

Casey is an Irishman who is vulgar, funny, and despicable. He loves his ‘shillelagh’, which is nothing more than a blunt club.

Jackson is an Australian, who is well-built and as crude as Casey.

Gus speaks with a croaky voice, and always is agitated about something. He is heavy, and not too fun to be around.

To find out more about my novel, “Way of the World,” just check out my website at http://www.thomasmwatt.com

The Dream is free but the Pain cost a Lifetime

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Painful brush strokes imagination, is this talent or procrastination.

See the fault of others true, cannot judge my own work too.

Painful headaches modest scoff, writing words or losing thoughts.

What’s the point of point of view, when you’re the biggest fan for you.

So damn subjective so many accuse, I’m wasting time to feel the blues.

One more edit, maybe two, after that I think I’m through.

Have persisted through so much, have not yet made a single buck.

How does that one sad story go, the one where reality is always cold?

Well oh well I guess that’s it, I hope my talent is not too stink.

– Thomas M. Watt

Let the Tree Grow

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Tired sobs run through my head, nose congested feel like dread.

Tomorrow marks a big day for me, if tomorrow sparks then fire springs.

Yet right now I feel like sighing, so damn tired, so long been trying.

Can’t speak too much of things unsaid, can’t think too much just want my bed.

No more pain in sleep at night, no more turning sleepless nights.

I hope to God I move somewhere, I hope so badly that fruit will bear.

Moving on from living dreams, achieving them is the next best thing.

Thomas M. Watt

Here Comes Next Stage

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Tempers flare here comes frustration Writers Conference Registration,

Hope I didn’t just waste this year hope I make connections here.

Hope to lay my cards to table hope to interest them in fables.

Tired of these sleepless nights tired of my write sight.

Need to get away from here move to next task a different gear.

Much too long in isolation far too long with no consolation.

Time to make a dime or two a penny or a thousand few.

Let’s get me somewhere find a name move on from here and too next stage.

Sorry fellows but I’ve been thinking, without a fan my work is sinking.

– Thomas M. Watt

The Man who Tried

There was once a man who didn’t give a damn,

Who tried and he tried and he tried.

The pain brought on tears and oh so many fears,

Of hopes to make his dreams come alive.

The nights all grew dark at that cold winter park,

The swing just always kept swingin’.

But he held on until blue skies at dawn,

The clouds and dreary winds all stopped sweeping.

He had no more fear about losing his years,

Didn’t give a damn about drinkin’,

Tried with his might on those lonely nights,

No time for a lesson on sleeping.

He chose the pain of hope not gone astray,

Chose to believe in the line.

Of sights less known and hopes fully grown,

Of mastering what he was thinkin’.

This man came through and found morning dew,

And summer’s sun started peakin’.

And wouldn’t you know it, the man didn’t show it,

But boy there were tears deep inside.

For his hope came to be and his dream’s destiny,

Was for his life to finally shine.

Boy yes it did, his vacated fear, his years lost to those lonely drives.

Because he fuckin’ did it, yes that man he did it, because he tried and he tried and he tried.

– Thomas M. Watt