Wednesday 29 June 2016

Who do you listen to?

The phone rings. I glance at it, recognize the number, and let it go to voicemail. 
It's work. Most likely, they want to offer me an extra shift. 
I have nothing going on tomorrow, and I could use the money. 

Yet, I know with every fibre of my being that I do NOT want to take that shift.
Am I lazy?

I flinch at that thought, unsure of myself. I don't think that I'm lazy, but on the other hand - my house could be cleaner, the yard could be better maintained, and I could should work more as a healthy, young(ish) non-mother. After all, what else do I have going on?

Well, that's just the thing. In my mind, my job is just that - a job. I want my life to be more. What exactly - well, I'm still figuring that out. Something to do with writing and yoga, because those two are my passion. My loves. 
But they also make me despair. 

You see, yoga loves me back, most of the time. It makes me feel good, peaceful, and challenges me enough to keep me on my toes, hungry, and wanting more.

Writing, on the other hand, is a conniving bitch. Every day that I'm busy, it whispers into my ear that as soon as I have a day off, we will hang out all day, frolicking and laughing together, having the best time ever. We will skip across meadows, creating magic, making our lives meaningful. 
Then, the long-awaited day arrives. I wake up with a vague idea (or often, no idea at all), make myself a cup of strong coffee, and sit down in front of my computer expectantly. 

I open my browser. 
Check my emails. 
Read my favourite blogs. 
Check Facebook. 
Abandon my computer to get a second cup of coffee, and check Snapchat. 

Come back to my computer, scrolling listlessly through my open tabs. 
Damn, I looked at them all. 

The corgi looks at me expectantly, pulling on my sleeve for added urgency. 
I feel a surge of relief flooding my body. 
Right, I have to walk the dog!

I jump up, grab my disc player and a new CD, and take off.

One hour later.   

I'm back. The corgi pooped twice and is tired, I feel pleasantly accomplished and a bit exhausted, and I'm back on the computer. 
Hmm, gotta check my emails first. 
And any new blog updates. 

Okay, that's done. 
It's 1:30 pm now, let's get on with the writing!

The words won't come. 
Am I wasting my time? Fooling myself? This writing gig is never gonna work out. 
English is my second language. 
I have no formal training. 
I don't dedicate enough time to it. 

Yet, I can't seem to give it up.
Shouldn't I be sensible and just quit the silly day dream? Be a grown-up, face my responsibilities, take any extra shifts I can get, really make a dent into my debt?
Isn't that how I was raised?

Yes, I was. 

And I never wanted to end up like them. 
Living to work, never taking a nap, never being spontaneous and doing something silly. 
Always doing your duty. 
Always having your life dictated by work.

I want more. 
And less. 
I want to have days where I don't do anything, and not feel guilty about it. 
I want to be able to stare up at the sky, watch the clouds, and think about life and the world we live in. 
I want to go for lunch dates with my husband on an ordinary Wednesday. 
And sit in front of my computer, agonizing for hours about finding the right words, just to be able to write an article that has been on my mind for weeks, and needed to get out, however difficult it was. 

I want to remember the dream I had when I was a teenager, of living in NYC with my sister, writing for a magazine where she would be the photographer, living the creative life I never thought I would be creative enough for. 
I want to live each day like it's my last, because I have met too many people who have fatal diseases. 

Life is damn precious, and I'm afraid I'm wasting it if I run into my 9-5 every time they call me.
It sucks out my creative energy. 
It makes me worry about little things that are not important in the big scheme of things.
It turns me into this complaining and boring person that keeps talking about the same topic over and over, for all eternity, never stopping. 
I don't want to be that person.   

Isn't that just an excuse to slack off?, the little German devil on my right shoulder whispers malevolently into my ear.  
No, follow your dream, the other angel (with a voice that sounds suspiciously like a mix between Elizabeth Gilbert and Richard) whispers urgently. 

And I listen to the second angel. 
Because I have followed the first one all my life. 

Isn't it time to give the other one a chance?


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