Comfort and contentment are the enemy of productivity. I’ve grown too comfortable, too complacent; I’m much more apt to produce when I feel a balance between anxiety and despair or acceptance of my circumstances, where the former is a driving force demanding escape or death, and the latter state of acquiescence only keeps me still and stable, but not fulfilled.
There must always be a fire behind us to keep us running, surging forward. Time waits for no man, and to let your guard down is to be swallowed by its callous tide and drowned in the ambiguity of the past. We are all racing toward a precipice: death. Behind us, flame and fury that will swallow us if given the chance. I want to go into the precipice of death without fear or regret.
This is no easy task. Life is wearying, and I am tired always. For months, a feeling of malaise has permeated the armor of my mind. Doubt and depression are my constant companions, and I am manacled to them both. I must cast off these shackles of despair and regain my bearings. Forward is the way, forward and through.
Towers of Rust 