Greyhound 34471868

A lingering thought always re-enters my mind at the end of the day. Am I going to be successful? I know that may sound conceited, but my motivations for success are different. It’s not for the money, fame, women, or whatever else comes with success. Mental satisfaction? No, forget it. All I mean is, all these things are great, but not necessary to me. I just want to see what I can accomplish.

I mean I’m obsessed with this idea. I’ll write myself notes and talk to myself in front of the mirror about this idea called success. I’ll be frantically scribbling and then three seconds later I’ll run over to my mirror and recite a speech. It’s insanity, and I never do it. But I can pretend I do, just as I can pretend about my potential success.

I’m into success. I just can’t seem to escape this strange motivation to achieve what I call “my potential.” Only I find I’m at odds with myself because, well, to put it lightly, and I hate to say it; I’m lazy as fuck. Yes, I am full of motivation, the-kind-of-motivated-but-not-really-motivated-enough-to-do-anything motivation. I just prefer to do nothing, but doing nothing has never tended well to success. So sometimes a miracle happens, I gear down, I get true motivation, inspiration even, and I do things. It’s great. Except these types of days (day) are always followed by weeks of nothing. My motivation enters hibernation, and the wait begins. Sometimes it all just seems futile, a sense of dread washes over me, and I question the meaning of my life. But then I smile. Sitting at my desk, I recall the clock in the corner of my room, patiently clicking away. Regardless of my success or failure, the simple life was never for me.

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