Digging Deep in the Midnight Hours.

The days have a tendency of getting away from me. It’s like a tornado of shouting and running, and stepping in dog shit. Eating bad food and getting indigestion.

Then, when it’s over I lie in bed with clenched fists, grinding my teeth with a slightly elevated heart-rate thinking about what a mistake I’ve made with my priorities.
I should quit work, I think to myself. My job just holds me back. And those people who call me periodically throughout the day — distractions, nothing more!

I could’ve written the beginning of a piece that takes me all the way to the big time!

I’ll wake up at 4 a.m. tomorrow! I’ll organize my game plan for the film I’m working on. The film will be great. I just need to give it more than I’m giving it now.

Why do I do that? Why do I only give it 75%. Why does 75% feel like 95% in the moment? I’m fucking soft, that’s why. It’s probably closer to 50%.

I should’ve joined the military. If I’d have joined the military they’d have beat my ass and shown me what I’m made of. I have so much more potential.

I lie there, disgusted with myself, thinking that in forty years I’ll be nearing my final moments having the same conversation, only then it will be too fucking late to kick it into overdrive.

The next day I wake up at 4 a.m. I feel like shit, my mind is foggy. My writing is trash, I want to go to bed.

I stumble through the day, making mistakes. I’m hungry, but also my stomach feels awful and I’m sweaty. I’m not the guy that the health and motivational coaches said I’d be — I’m a person who looks like a crackhead because I didn’t get enough sleep. Everything I write is torturous. My output increases, though, but I can’t say it’s better. I press on, and on, then I hit that point where I’ve accomplished everything I can… and I’m waiting on other people. Waiting is the worst when you’ve tried to line everything up and knock it out effectively, and when you’ve downed two energy drinks and your eye begins to twitch.

What am I waiting for?

Waiting for life to let me line shit up and knock it down, but life has ways of slowing me (us) down. The sun isn’t out like I need it to be. People are working and we can’t meet up yet. My equipment is broken. Inspiration won’t strike, flaccid pen syndrome, humiliating!

So I sit, depleted, needing to eat and wanting to barf, unable to write, unable to do anything with anyone because they aren’t available. I’m locked in with six hours left of the day, and not an ounce of enthusiasm left in my body.