The Rebel’s Regimen is no regimen at all.
There was a super moon the other night. I want the phenomenon to be some mysterious force that gets me writing gobs of words. Because it’s easier to assign my will and ambition to external forces (both real and ridiculous) than to draw them from within.
It’s been two months since I quit my 24-year career in the grocery industry. I quit to pursue a dream. I quit for my sanity. I quit because I am deathly weary of trading time for ever-diminishing soul sucking returns. This has left me with a shit-ton of free time.
Too much. The days burn out by like falling stars. Sly and quick, always at the periphery of vision.
And then I panic, because this free time won’t last. And worse, I’ll have nothing to show for it.
It makes me wish I was the kind of writer that suffered from mania. The lows would be brutal, but the highs would be a torrent of words. Words would defeat sleep and hunger and loneliness and depression and all forms of distraction. It would be horrible, but I’d have words.
But I don’t have mania. I suffer from a lack of backbone. I have no process to my days. I’d like to think that perhaps these past two months have been a kind of detox from 24 years of mindless drudgery but my critical side tells me I’m just lazy, that I lack conviction and that I’m most likely a fraud.
It’s exhausting. I’m exhausted. I’m tired of many things. Mostly, myself.