In the past, I’ve clung to old rhythms out of fear and comfort, but I started to realize they turn into chains and eventually anchors, weighing me down with paranoia and pessimism. I’ve watched my friends experience the exact same thing, retreating into aimless patterns and a fortress of talking points. They were no longer engaging with life; they were rotting in a prison made of negative justifications. It was remarkable, really—they could have been predictable robots that continually took damage, all in an effort to avoid being wounded. Misery was simply an accepted default.
This led me to believe that I need to pursue my dreams, even if it’s only for a minute a day. I still have to pay for rent and groceries, but I can always find time to write down an idea, craft a paragraph, or do a bit of research. I’m not trying to judge anyone, or shame people into “hustle-life” cringe, or some variation of pull-yourself-up-by-your-nonexistent-bootstraps, I’m simply stating that from where I stand, I’ve seen what happens if I don’t keep putting my desires out into the universe. Personally, I’d rather keep moving toward my dreams, even if it’s only five minutes a day, which I have sometimes had to do. There’s no nobility or condemnation in it, it’s simply a preference that seems to make sense to me.