Shit. It's Sunday, and I have to go work on the house. Everyday I work on the house. It has gotten so hard to keep at it. I think I am in the sixth or seventh week of painting, and though it's near done - everyone says so - I can't seem to see the end. The most interesting thing about this process, is seeing myself brought to the end of my will; my strength; my resolve. i consider myself the strongest man alive, but I'm watching the steeply banking downward curve of my focus.
The hardest thing is knowing how much personal business needs seeing to, and not having the nergy at the end of the day to deal with it. yesterday our front door lock went on the fritz, and I just left it. For all I know the house is wide open. My room upstairs is just a sty, mattress bare, clothes on the floor, alongside garbage, crumpled up receipts, pieces of sandpaper. If only I coyuld finish today, in one twelve hour rush of work. I would totally do it. Instead I'm only able to fill holes and gaps in the wood with caulking and bondo. I want to take this day off, but I'll regret it tomorrow.
It's scary to push myself so hard and so far.