You finally carve out two hours for the creative project that has been calling you for months. You sit down, open your laptop, take a deep breath. The first sentence flows. Then the second. You feel it — that rare, delicious state where time dissolves and the work moves through you.
Your phone rings.
You silence it. You return to the work. Three more sentences. The flow returns. You’re in it now.
The power goes out.
You laugh at the cosmic joke, light a candle, pull out a notebook. Pen to paper. The handwriting feels right. You’re adapting. Still in flow.
Someone knocks at the door. Urgent. The neighbour needs help. Their emergency becomes your emergency.
By the time you return to your desk, the flow is gone. The creative portal has closed. And somewhere in your nervous system, something has been confirmed: reaching for joy triggers catastrophe.
Your body already registered that.
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