There are nights when I finish and realize I don't feel proud. I feel lighter, the way a room feels after a long-held argument ends. I don't know when I started needing the doing more than I wanted the result.
Somewhere along the line, hard work stopped being a plan and became a place.
A place where my hands already know the next move, where the next hour has a shape.
No one warns you that effort can become a hiding place.
That you can bury your doubts in small tasks and call it discipline.
There were years when I thought discipline meant waking up earlier than everyone else and refusing to stop until something broke, but now I understand it mostly meant staying in the chair long enough to forget there was a door.
There's a pencil on my desk with teeth marks near the eraser.
I don't remember biting it.
But it's there.
The strange part is that nobody asks about the work once it's done. They ask if it was worth it. And I never know what to say. The worth was never really the point. The point was the hour between ten and eleven when I didn't have to decide who I was. I've started sentences about it in my head and never finished them.
I don't tell people this, but some nights I catch myself admiring the pile of finished things not for what they are, but for the way they let me disappear for a while.
Half-finished coffee. A window gone dark.
Or maybe I'm wrong.
Maybe it isn't hiding.
It might just be the only rhythm my body trusts.
Was it always like this?
No one prepared me for the possibility that the work would outlast the dream that started it.
Sometimes I think I'm not building a life.
I'm just keeping a rhythm so I don't have to hear what the silence says.
Tonight I'll wash the cup, close the laptop, and then I'll sit in the dark for a while, not thinking about what any of it was for.
The kettle ticks once, then goes quiet.
