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One Foot In Front of the Other




It's cold outside, but I'll still trek out for a long walk. Being obsessive-compulsive ignites my monkey mind and plays my most neurotic greatest hits like a jukebox that only plays a handful of brittle 45s. It's ok, the simple act of taking a long walk helps to purge my thoughts. 

I don't drive. My G-1 expired last September and my fear of running over schoolchildren keeps me away from the driver's seat. Besides, buying a car is a lousy investment that I can't afford. Walking is fine. It's always served me well. Walking in silence is good for you, and most people are malnourished when it comes to silence. We spend so much time plugged into The Matrix that we forget how boring activities have simple gifts in store for us. Going for a walk or just sitting and meditating for a few minutes can open your mind to insight and you can solve problems that have been gnawing at you. The mercurial muse might even appear, offering inspiration for a creative project that would lie dormant if you kept wasting time on Instagram. We need larger gaps in our minds in between the bursts of thoughts, the random and the pointless, the distressing and anxiety-inducing, and the reminders of our to-do list. 

Sometimes during my strolls, I feel like taking a break by sitting on a park bench but I don't want to get a fine for $900. It's best to keep moving forward anyway. 

While walking today, I kept thinking about my novel and why I keep resisting the act of sitting down to work on it. Then I had the idea that I should change my mindset and start thinking of writing it as my job. I'm not allowed to go to my regular job right now, but while I sit at home in solitude, on the government dole, I can take this wealth of free time and treat it like working hours. I can write and write and write. I can create a routine. I can get out of bed in the morning, and get to work. I can take an hour break to go for my walks, and then go back to work. This is my job now. There are no excuses, only petty distractions. My time is valuable or worthless, depending on how I choose to use it. I can emerge from this strange time stronger and with a novel, OR I can come out of this with nothing to show for it except fingers caked in Cheeto dust. It's up to me. To be continued...




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