Iterations

You get out of bed every day, even when you are tired, even when the world seems drained of meaning and color. And everyday you work on the thing. And everyday it accumulates and morphs into something with greater definition.

Every bit counts and accumulates and applies towards the thing. What matters most is that you apply your attention towards it. Even when it seems to be headed nowhere. And looks dumb. And sounds stupid.

It's going to be uncomfortable. It's going to be dull. All you have to do is wait it out. Take a breath and know that the doldrums will die an ignominious death. That if you sit with it long enough, exhaustion will give in to something else. This is your mind relenting and coming up with a brilliant alternative. With enough space and time, this always happens.

Faith and optimism are powerful truths. Without them you'd accept exhaustion as persistent. And the world as meaningless and desaturated as it seems when you wake or in the late afternoon. But this is only part of a rhythm. Your mind is seasonal, as is your life, as is the day. Nothing you feel lasts forever.

It's hard to be alive today but in a different way than it was in the past. It's not physical violence but a cerebral violence that you have to court like a matador and bull. I'm surrounded by so much luxury. I can forget and wander at a moment's notice, at any time. As patience rarifies among us, it becomes that much more precious and worthy of exercising.