Writing. Or typing. Typing my writing.
I have dropped the playing by day and typing by night and simply type, more by day than night. I sleep at nights now. Mostly.
It makes me sound less interesting but it was one of those bullet points that I’ve finally fired.
There’s no two ways about it. It felt good. Read into that what you will.
Becoming what you want to be was like satisfying a hard to reach itch – extraordinarily gratifying but isn’t it always the way that another one appears. It needs scratched in a different way, less nails.
The part of you you loose in the undying pursuit of a life goal is perhaps not lost, just hidden. Submerged under the iron will, and layers of tough determination built over time. It’s whether to unearth them, scrape and un-knot the layers or start again.
I am not a pessimist and I am not addressing, as opposed to ignoring, my joyful and grateful success. One which I am lucky to have and know it. I had just forgotten about the rest of me and it is only that I now see.
Which brought me back to the Midnight Oil, which, by definition, is now the daylight oil, and in fact not oil, but glare, computer glare, ever real and ever-burning and mysteriously and coquettishly has become my master, but a kind and rewarding master to which I am happy to serve.