I wear deadlines on my mind like a corset, so I fit into the modern ideal of time is money, time waits for no man, and, contrary to Jagger’s cocky reprise, time is not on my side. The hanging concept of a deadline limits, generating its own panicked motivation to act or doom oneself to suffocation. The creative curves of the mind are taboo; 12-inch anorexic ideas that fit so daintily into an Excel chart are coveted, demanded, laced into my thoughts from childhood. Somewhere, I like to think there is or was a place, a feeling, of absolutely no constraint. Beyond this, the strict and timely, there is a free-flowing paradise-of-mind, where deadlines, cages, and corsets are kindling, nothing but burning red shadows of oppression to light the tribal dance of imagination.
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