In the past four years, I’ve set goals on a daily, monthly and a yearly basis and I tried as much as I could to stick to them. Most of them I achieved, but few times I appreciated the act of completing them.
And this can have sour results in the long run.
I always strive for more, and have little interest in celebrating any kind of accomplishments simply because for me they are little more than check marks on a to do list.
I don’t know what it feels like to be satisfied by completing something and putting it in the real world, I only know how to check an item on a piece of paper and turn the page for more.
This is way I sometimes fell nothing I did since I started my go-get-it writing marathon really made me happy. It just made me busy.
And here I am, writing to you about a truth I seldom admit to myself. Is this some sort of complain? A way to channel my fear? A solitary thought written in my kitchen after sleeping for less than three hours? Just a way to fill up time?
I’m not sure. And I don’t really care, because on my to do list I’m reading, ‘Write at least two blog posts per month in English’, and that is exactly what propels my fingers on the keyboard: Keeping promises to myself, regardless of the outcome, regardless of any contingent thoughts.
What matters in the end is a series of imperatives that define who I really am.
Look at the big picture. Stick to the plan. Keep writing. Don’t lose hope.
And enjoy every moment of it.