The problems in my life are of my own making. Any number of excuses would suffice in blowing off what I have to do, but where does that leave me?

I'd prefer bed but I have a responsibility to write. I promised myself that I would write a blog post for thirty consecutive days.

I had a shitty sleep last night. I played volleyball after work. I've written for nine days in a row. I deserve a break. Everyone would understand why I needed a rest. All valid and good enough that I'd tell a friend, don't worry man, take a break. Yet, these are of my own making. I could of went to bed earlier. I didn't have to play volleyball.

I chose thirty days for a reason. It's outside my comfort zone.

We need to dig deep. This is how we claim ownership over our lives. When playing it safe or fuck it are your next choice, tell yourself: “I have to go to work — as a human being. What do I have to complain of, if I’m going to do what I was born for — the things I was brought into the world to do? Or is this what I was created for? To huddle under the blankets and stay warm?”

Those words by Marcus Aurelius sting.

Wage war on the mundane.