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The Misconception: Willpower is just a metaphor.

The Truth: Willpower is a finite resource.

In 2005, a team of psychologists made a group of college students feel like scum.

The researchers invited the undergraduates into their lab and asked the students to just hang out for a while and get to know each other. The setting was designed to simulate a casual meet-and-greet atmosphere, you know, like a reception or an office Christmas party – the sort of thing that never really feels all that casual?

The students divided into same-sex clusters of about six people each and chatted for 20 minutes using conversation starters provided by the researchers. They asked things like “Where are you from?” and “What is your major?” and “If you could travel anywhere in the world, where would you go?” Researchers asked the students beforehand to make an effort to learn each other’s names during…

You can’t turn your back on it,
you know.

You’ve tended to it, cared for it,
nursed it from vacant bones and
put meat to its flesh, but it doesn’t
know any better, does it?

You won’t be able to make it
understand exactly what time and effort
and love you’ve put into it, or what
hope you have for it, what future
you want for it.

Sure, you can pander to it,
plead with it, prey about it,
but it is not so much deaf as alien,
aware, alive, yet unknowing-
uncaring for our ways.

Unlistening and yet hearing, it
is just another animal, another
guiltless stray that wanders on in step
with us from the moment we take it in
to the feasting scraps of
our final days.

And, worst of all, it will not linger
when our kindly offerings are gone.

No. It will just do as…

One mistake that could have been prevented

But not easily fixed.

Stir until the bumps begin to smooth out.

Add a dash or glimmer of hope to taste;

Enough that it can still be crushed

But not enough to overpower.

Let sit until it ferments

And spreads

Sinking into the crevices in your brain

Leaving you with nothing

But an aftertaste

Of what could have been.

Wicked, the name given because
of pure ambition, the drive that
separates me from those who have
given up their dreams in turn for
what might be considered a safer
secure “i-do-alright’ kind
of life, the title corralling me
out of commonalities and placing
me behind lines drawn, mind boggling
technicalities that would see me waste
my life away if I try to play the
game that they set out right,
refusing to jump through hoops
I end up on my own life blood,
the essence of my own time,

So I must stalk through shadows
in search of success and wade
through early morning hours
in pursuit of my happiness
while time slips mercilessly
ever onward in despite of my
drooping eyes and caffeine weakens,
the effects draining over time,
till I am left running on my
will alone though, thankfully,
it is on it that and my strengthening