Today is one of those where I don’t feel like working on my job, but on my dream. My job sustains me. My dream lifts me up. One does not exist without the other. I do not exist without either. They conflict with each, fighting for my time, my attention. I give too much to the job and not enough to the dream. I am going to change this. Life is too hectic, too screwed up and ever changing. I love it some days. I want to be set free from the confines of what I need to do for sustenance. I want to feed & live on the dream.
I am not happy when I am not writing. The crap I throw on here is temporary relief of the pressure, but does nothing to help in a larger sense. I have developed a physical imperative to tell stories, to teach, to entertain, to provoke – to write. When I do not satisfy this imperative, I become dark, dreary, moody, head-achy, and generally unpleasant to be around. I don’t like myself when I am not writing. I feel like shit. If nothing is ever read, published, produced. Well, that’s life. I won’t ever stop. I can’t.
Now I have to go and do what I need to do to get paid. My back hurts when I think about it.