Member-only story
Give Me Something
Lads, I’m begging you. Give me something real. I’m starving.
Don’t give me how. Give me why. Why should I bother in the first place? What’s waiting for me on the other side? I’m serious. I want to know. Describe it to me. Make a boat I can sail in. Fold this muck into origami. Make it into a swan. Watch it flap over the water.
The algorithms coax me along and now someone is telling me that “your energy is at its peak in the morning shortly after waking up”. Oh mate, what could you possibly know about my energy? Of my dips and darts and false starts? You’re not an authority on the rhythms of other people. If I had to guess, I’d say you’re barely one on your own.
The firenadoes are here, and you talk of 5AM routines. Aren’t you embarrassed?
I write and wait on the morning light. I follow the rules, but don’t feel productive. I feel tired and hungry and still weisswein cloudy. I would rather be sleeping. But I’m afraid of sabotage in the engine room, and I’m afraid that writing nothing now means writing nothing today means this week means a CV instead of a life. Fear is a tremendously underrated propellant. It is an acknowledgement of real threats. It is, unlike motivation, not a made-up LinkedIn white guy word.
I don’t want to attack the morning. I don’t want to attack anything. I am not a hammer. I am an arrow…
