Photo Courtesy of La Muse Inn
Recently,
I made the decision to quit my life. I didn’t admit this to myself aloud or to
anyone else, but I felt defeated and what does a person do when they feel
defeated, alone, and hopeless? They lie down to die. I wasn’t suicidal or
anything. I had just spruced up my corporate resume because I had big plans on
going back to the world of walking zombies, who are paid well and absolutely
miserable and unfulfilled on all other levels (if this doesn’t apply to you,
disregard). For me, this was the equivalent of dying. “Why quit your life?” you
ask. The truth is to rationalize my unconscious decision. I was claiming to be
realistic. The last twenty-four months have been absolutely hellish for me. A
bunch of highs and lows (more lows than highs) and my capacity to handle
another blow had already reached its limit. Cracks were beginning to form under
the weight of one disappointment after the other. Life was beating the hell out
of me, every since I made the decision to step out on faith and live out my
dream and life as a writer. Time has been passing me by without any real
evidence of forward progress in the monetary form. Read More
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