As prescribed by my personal doctor: Tim Ferris, I am writing these 200 words per day. I used to write two crappy pages per day, but that often just came out as gibberish trash. I sit with a Nespresso, sugar cane colored foam floating on top of the warm beverage. I never liked hot coffee. Coffee needs to be warm, not lip burning lava hot.
I am currently sitting on the 8th floor of rental apartment in Rotterdam. The view is fucking amazing. People who are in charge of this city are doing a wonderful job. Modern architecture, cubist buildings, wood, metal and glass are balanced out by tall, bushy trees. In the distant I can see the port. Cranes shifting crates, moving stuff around. An important job. If a crate falls, well, you don’t get your Amazon order.
I did a couple of write ups in polish in the previous month. Now I just wanted to test myself in English. I like the English language better. I find it more poetic, smooth, jazzy, with a pinch o spice. Although I would like to aim for my polish audience, I don’t actually give a fuck about who reads this piece.
Writing has become my little private asylum. Before I sit to write, I turn off all of the fucking distractions. Wifi – off. Cell phone – off. Messy room – cleaned. Trash – taken care of. Dishes – shining like porcelain diamonds. I’m aware that my English is a little bit rusty, but it doesn’t matter. As I said, this is my asylum. My private cell. I locked myself in. Quarantine.
Down on a distant street I see people walking (glued to their phone screens). If only they would look up, they would notice that an invisible battle is going on. Seagulls are fighting for pieces of bread. A war raging in an airborne kingdom.
The first wave of resistance is coming. I can feel it in my hands, I can feel it in my head. By now I have around 330 words, I could stop now and go back to reading a book. But I’m holding the line. I’m saving my own Private Ryan today.
Writing requires solitude, peace, space to think. Writing is a way to declutter my mind, so even if my views are close to none, I still benefit. Is a blogger a writer? Well depends. A good writer should be able to:
- Pick his own brain
- Catch his emotions onto paper
- Observe them without judgment
- Package his emotions/thoughts into abstract yet digestible sentences
- Catch the reader’s attention
- Develop titanium writing discipline
- Avoid distractions like the plague
How much would I able to write if I wrote from 8 am – 4 pm. That’s the time I’m stuck in my office job. Well it’s not really a job. I just sit there pretending to be working, so those 8 hours are actually wasted. I force myself to do the corporate work, hoping that one day I will suddenly fall in love with it. There are some aspects that I’m grateful for, like that fact that I have unlimited coffee, water and a place to exchange ideas. Often times people at work exchange ideas about… well work. So to find somebody who is trustworthy, who like me, feels trapped and raped by the system, is rare. Once I find a person like that, we instantly become bros. It has happened three times in the past. These people have become my good if not one of my best friends. We all have similar goals: to escape the world of cubicles, excel spread sheets, back pains, sitting, never ending tickets, fake smiles and boring conversations . On the other hand work pays. Writing doesn’t. But I write regardless. I am Sisyphus, rolling the stone uphill. Writing against all odds. I fall down when I go to the office, get the stone rolling when I sit down in the afternoon to become a writer. This is my English alter ego – Sisyphus.
I have reached the third resistance wave. The first one was hard to overcome, but bearable. The second one was easy to surf over as I was starting to get into flow. The third one seems two times bigger than the first one. I’m still sitting in the same place I was sitting in an hour ago. I cannot move as I know that if I do that my concertation will break. I will not be able to come back. I have no idea how much time has passed since I started writing, I’ve set a stop watch that is lying on the other part of the table. If I could guess I would say that in my perception time has now been bended. I do not feel time passing by. This is what writing does to me. It gives me flow. Time stretches or stops. Even though the clouds are moving, I cannot feel the scales of time moving. My guess is that 20 minutes have passed. Let’s check the watch. 35 minutes! 35 minutes of focus. Amazing. This is my record. This is a mile stone. I’m happy for today. I have accomplished something.
Tomorrow I’m back at the office and the stone that I rolled uphill will hit me in the face.