“When the Muse Is a Menace — Creating Even on the Days You Don’t Feel Like It” A Chaos Journal Entry By One Bad Maa Some days the muse shows up like a rabid angel, claws out, ideas flying, energy popping off like electricity under the skin. And some days? The muse is a menace. Avoidant. Missing. A ghost with a middle finger. And that’s exactly why I don’t rely on her. People love to talk about inspiration. They don’t talk about the mornings where you sit there staring at your screen like it owes you money. They
Category: Chaos Journal
Be Your Own Fuel: What Happens When Motivation Runs Out Write by One Bad Maa Some days you wake up ready to run through a brick wall, with full force, nothing is stopping you. . Other days you feel like the brick wall ran through you, fog from the scene still lingering in the air, body feeling the impact of every brick. Nobody talks about the second kind of day , the heavy ones, the foggy ones, the ones where your brain is sludge and your body feels glued to the floor. The days where “motivation” isn’t just low…
Walking Back Into My Own Life — One Loud Step at a Time There are days when life feels like it’s running without you, a full on sprint, and you’re just left in the dust of your own shadow. Like you’re watching your own existence through a fogged-up window, knowing you’re in there somewhere, but not sure how to get back to the version of you that feels alive. I’ve been in that space for a minute. Longer than I wanted to admit. Not broken, not spiraling, not defeated, just gone in a way that’s hard to describe. Like the
🕯️ Journal Entry #002: When the Realm Breathes Back October 31 – Written from the Garage by One Bad Maa The Realm’s been different tonight. You can feel it before you even flip the switch, a pulse, slow and heavy, like the walls are holding their breath. The kind of silence that hums in your teeth before it breaks. I should’ve gone inside hours ago, but I couldn’t. The air’s too thick with something I can’t name. The candle won’t stay still; the flame keeps bowing toward the workbench, like it’s listening. They say Halloween thins the veil;
🛠️ Built From the Bolt Up Straight From Rebel’s Journal The hum of the grinder is the closest thing I’ve ever heard to prayer. Sparks fly like tiny, furious stars, and I can’t help but think, this is what starting over really sounds like. Not quiet. Not graceful. It’s noise and heat and the stubborn decision to make something out of all the busted-up pieces. People talk about rebuilding like it’s some tidy thing, a little reflection, a little healing, and suddenly you’re polished chrome again. But anyone who’s ever built a bike from scratch knows you start with
ENTRY #001: TRANSMISSION FROM THE REALM [Realm Time 01:43 – Friday Night, lights low, the machine humming] “A log from the Architect of Chaos, when the world quiets and the fire reignites.” I’m writing this with the room quiet, streets faint outside the window, Command Center glowing like a cockpit. I can hear the fan in the laptop, that soft mechanical breath, like the machine’s reminding me it’s still here even when I am not. Two weeks thrown off rhythm will mess with your head. You start to feel like a ghost who used to live inside the body that