Trying to calm myself.  But at least I’m acknowledging these feelings and thoughts, and using it as a meditation.  The Nurse has always ordered me to pay more attention to what I feel.  That initial reaction, how you feel when something happens, like right when it occurs.  That’s where I am now.  With work.  Nothing really happened, but just the realization just now that I’m here in this job that is a box.  And I’m not the only one feeling so.

Overhearing some words this morning.  I have to build my own building.  So… start here.  Let everything out.  See a couple people walking by, but I’m not distracted for that long surprisingly.  Usually I’d check my phone or scroll instagram or some shit, but not now.

Probably realizing I can’t afford to.  Wasting time is wasting life and money and opportunity, and anything else that could make life better for me and the kids and the Nurse.

14:47….   Missing simpler scenes.  Mornings at Dutcher Crossing when I’d set up the tasting room, then right before we open walk out to the lawn and just stare at the vineyard.  Job didn’t pay shit as most wine industry gigs do, but still.

That feeling.  The sun, air, relaxed and calm.  No quota, just a day of conversations and REAL connectivity.  Catch myself staring at the brick wall to my left.  What the FUCK am I complaining about?  And if I’m not complaining then getting in some mood, some overly analytical lean?  WHY?  Seriously Mike shut the fuck up… you have everything you need, right here.  Like, literally at this desk.  In this amazing condo that the Story just fucking handed you.

Now I’m strong, or feeling strong.  Nurse and I agree to a date night tonight.  We need it.  Her especially, my far more than hardworking to-be-Bride.  Still can’t believe that. I need to toughen up… simplify and consolidate, singularize, and take on these devils more directly.

I have to say it.  Sorry.  Yes, I want to write more yay-saying yodels and positive prose, but there are contaminants that need be cut out.  That simple.  The elaboration and excessive explanation and declination is something not needed in this paragraphed inventorying.

14:53, noticing my writing speed and Beat, momentum and sprint.  What is it?  The realization, of course.  The honesty.  Me, here.. fuck that.  My quota is NOT me. The pitch, entirely not me. And the fucking funnel, don’t get me started.  Not sure why I pursued sales after being released from the MSP last February.  I don’t know, maybe what I was used to?  I did well at the last telecom.  But this corporate mutant playground, no.  Not for this writer.

Again, feels better after typing.  The honesty with self.  And when others tell me what I need to do, what this takes, how I need to be different.  Only has me in more of a convicted shape to do what I love, be more me than was ever able or allowed to fucking be.

No retreat.  And no dimming this writer’s blaze.  Waking early tomorrow not to run but WRITE.  Or, maybe run first then write.  Have laptop on table waiting.

New soundness in this loud Nowness.