Why I do what I do, why I want what I want.There was a time when I was a different person. When I thrived on stress and told myself endlessly that I worked better under pressure. There was a time when I thought workdays were 18 hours long, when no matter how hard I tried I was always told it wasn’t enough, so I worked harder and harder and harder. There was a time when my worth was measured in percentages and bonuses and sales and unpaid hours.
I listen now, to myself and to others. It hurts and frustrates me in equal parts to hear of the struggles of people I care about, in their jobs, the daily grind, the endless chase. It hurts to see people slaving away, for no reward, to pay bills, to earn money, that money that makes the world go round and round. Doesn’t it?
People who are trapped in a job that’s fast becoming soulless, people who have to fit their ‘life’ around work, sneaking in a quick exercise session around the commute, running, cycling to where? To work. People in concrete, in boxes, looking forward to the 4 weeks out of 52 when they are finally free, and for that small proportion of the year, each endless year, they can live and feel alive and enjoy each day. Explore. Rest. Think. Relax. Adventure. Until realisation hits, the hours counting down. And then it’s over. Back to the box, to pay the bills. Those bills, that make the world go round and round.
I do what I do because it’s right for me.
I still work, but now for 18 hours a week, not 18 hours a day. I learn, grow, build and open my mind. I sit and watch and walk and climb. I spend days in the pouring rain, freezing, soaking. I do what I absolutely love and I earn enough. Enough to continue to live this life that I love. That money, that money.
I do this because I truly, honestly believe we all have a right to a life. A real life of our own making. Not a shadow of an existence, with a finite wage, controlled by someone else in order to make yet another company richer. We’re born, we exist, we die. We’re born, we live, we die. Live.
I want what I want because it gives my life a purpose and meaning.
If I can, in any small way help someone to reach a potential, to see a bigger picture, to become happier, to discover…then it’s worth it. I know I don’t want to spend fifty years chasing an illusionary dream, that creation of society, the job, the career. It’s not real. Life is real. Experiences are real. Honesty with yourself is real. Fear is real.
Fear of what? Of the possibility that our imagined perfect life won’t measure up? Of leaving security? Of having no money? That money that makes the world go round may just be keeping you from really living in that world.
I sit and ponder if I’m doing the right thing. If choosing my own path is really for me. If it wouldn’t be easier to jump back into the 9 to 5, earning more money so I can buy more stuff. Of course it’d be easier. That’s what everyone should be doing. It’s the rules, right? It’s normal.
Except that it’s not. We should have a choice. And what’s sad is that we can’t even see the choice any more. It’s money or bust. Job or bust. Career or bust. Work, money, family, car.
We’re told we have to suffer to earn our enjoyment. Work hard, play hard.
I try to live simply.
I feel nauseous surrounded by adverts. I get angry with the world. But still I sometimes catch myself wanting that consumer dream, the easy option. But then I sit on a rock, up a mountain or on a wild moor, on a weekday. I lie and watch the clouds or turn my face to the rain falling from the sky. I acknowledge the earth, the universe, the futility of the work and job norm, the vastness of time and space and everything in between. I feel a great joy. We all have a place in this world and none of us should be wasting the possibility of our lives feeling rubbish in the daily grind. That place we have? It shouldn’t be created by someone else.
My place is wild, running in the wind, hair a tangled mess, freezing, laughing, alive, outside. That’s my place.