Personal Writing

Standing Still

I've spent a week being observative of my nature, and my efficiency. The resulting statistics scared me. I'm placing all of it in the wrong place. The place that doesn't want any of it.

I’ve begun the process of rounding out my third decade on this planet. And nothing I have done seems to have cemented me as a successful adult, or dependable human. It’s a frightening conclusion for one’s mind to achieve.

I caught myself standing still.

Through the resources I’ve gained over the years, I thought I was a capable person. A young man with aspirations — that may have only slightly been further reaching than those of my peers — and plenty of time to get “there”. Wherever there actually was. Do you know? I sure as fuck did not.

There I was, diving into a new career. One that essentially was the opposite of what I had been doing up until that point. Journalism came naturally to me. Writing. This. Comes naturally. I am poisoned by fictional bulimia. Most of the time, it is uncontrollable. In a lot of situations, it’s a problem. Except for this one. Where I’m free to do as I please. In the flavor or style I please. The change in career wasn’t for the change of work. It was for the difference in scenery. The temperature at which one’s “co-workers” related to one-another. And I definitely made the right choice. The place, the work, are all a great place for me to be. Not forever. But at this point in my life it is perfect.

I started pouring everything I had into this new job. And it got emotional. Here’s a lesson I’ve learned. If your job isn’t one that you could do for the rest of your life, never fall in love with it. Try to just LIKE it a lot.

I’ve spent a week observing my nature, my efforts, and my efficiency. The resulting statistics scared me. I’m placing all of it in the wrong place. The place that doesn’t want any of it. Essentially wasting it all. I’ve been paying rent, on someone else’s mortgage. Outside of that studio, I’ve been standing still. For far too long, I’ve concluded.

This is the first personal thing I’ve written in months. I’ve cut the ribbon on a feel-good piece about my romance with the town of Tofino, but nothing has come out of me spiritually, intelligently, or creatively, and I’ve nearly misplaced the memory of this taste. A  sensation which I refuse to let become foreign. Above anything, I’ve become disappointed(ing).

Disappointed in myself.

I can’t say for certain, but I’d be willing to bet that I’ve been more productive this last week that I ever have been in my entire life. Constantly moving, creating, producing. Why? Because I wanted to do right by me. To make something come to fruition. To give my love to something that deserves it. Wants it. And returns it in the form of that warm feeling we all strive for; pride. Laying the groundwork for what’s going to be a very passion-filled project — one that Squid and I will both be pouring our hearts into — has me giddy.

The Dream is free. But the HUSTLE is sold separately. – Gary Vaynerchuk

I feel invigorated by this fire. I will no longer accept zero movement. I’m flying, or I’m dead. That’s how I get what I want, and tell my tale. I will no longer fear exhaustion. Instead I will embrace it. Hug it in display of belonging, and affection. A trophy of a hard day’s accomplishments. I will no longer shy away from taking what I desire. Thinking about it for days straight, alone in my head, I landed on a creed. One that has yet to fail in pushing me. One that I can convince the monsters in the mirror to abide by.

I do not want to be someone who stands on the escalator. 


cover image by http://www.petersphotosblog.com

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