Recently I made a promise to write more, but didn’t stop to ask myself an important question first. Why?
The answer seemed obvious. The same reason we do anything, because we want to.
But then I began to ask myself, is there a deeper reason?
I could do any number of things with my time , so what’s so special about writing?
Yes it appeals to my need to create and make order out of chaos, but so to do my other passions: art and music.
My relationship status with working out is complicated. When I’m in the moment I love every sweaty, grueling second of it. I live for the moment when I don’t think I can lift another rep, but then I look inward and find the strength to carry on. It washes over me and all that I am burns with the fire of my will. Nothing maters because I am infinite.
The next day my body lay in ruins and I ask myself why do I put myself through this. I ponder whether to rest or drag myself to the gym. Some days I make it, others I don’t, but the answer is always the same.
Because I wouldn’t be happy until I feel those flames again.
Here in lies the reason I write. To tap into this inner well and make manifest the indefatigable spirit that dwells within it. More than that, to let others know this same strength is in them.
What makes you feel infinite?