I've been growing complacent.

There's more to this than just putting down words. That, if anything, is the mistake we are liable to make. There's a lot of mythology that comes with the act of creation. We tell ourselves that it's only good if we do it while drinking a fresh cup of coffee. Or in the dead of night. Or it's only good if it's been edited a trillion times, just to make sure. When creation works one way, we are loath to depart from the way in any shape or form. And then with every successful iteration, a new step gets added accidentally. Maybe a certain kind of music was playing, that last time. Maybe we were in love.

Eventually, the machine is build of so many fleeting components it cannot be remade.in an instant - that one instant in which creation was potential. The parts were all wrong when it came. It feels like it wasn't your fault that you weren't ready to meet it.

No.
It feels like cowardice.

So in a moment of clarity, the machine's rotting irons are heaved away. You start fresh. You learn to do it all by hand again, even if the material feels really awkward against your exposed skin. Maybe this time it will be different. Maybe this time you'll manage to preserve the vitality of touching your art, while still utilizing the clinical perfection of an upgraded machine. Maybe.

I've... I've been growing complacent.

This place is all that matters. This white space, this blankness and all the potential it holds to be etched black. I didn't want to print imperfect things. The depth of my ambition has ensured my work remains buried, while I ponder and improve. It's easy to convince yourself that that's all that's required. Putting down words, that is. Getting them right.
But... it's more than that. It's bravery, too. You have to be prepared to lose control of exactly what you're saying, once in a while. I'd explain that in more detail if I had a whole lot of time, but this is a sprint I'm doing, before it all vanishes into the air. Sometimes examining every inch of a thing blinds you to the import of its critical details, its virtual heart. To speak of the heart - to speak from the heart... you've got to just have those details. Nothing more articulate. Just the reality of exactly what a thing is.

This complacency... it's killing parts of me.

I've lost a lot of my poetry, deferring to the machine's skilled workmanship. I've lost... all memory of what I've lost. That's the hardest part. Something changed, but I'm not entirely sure what it was. I don't even know if I lost it, or if I am lost, wandered off into a limbo dream where I'm trying the same old things, in a world unresponsive. That's another very real possibility.

If there's a solution, I'd like to find it. I'm not sure I can. But I think I'll begin here. Just... starting again. Something to work at until it comes back, and the creation is effortless again.
Or if not effortless... as good as it felt to be me.