“In a year and a half, I was making 6-figures.” The comment hit me on the ‘I’m doing something wrong’ nerve. A message board asking bloggers the length of time it took them to make money had me comparing my blog bank account’s zero reading. I felt awkwardly insecure like my exposed braless breasts were flapping in the air’s chill at the Pope’s installation.
In a finger’s snap, I’d failed to meet a goal. A goal I’d never set.
Just like how a dog’s body contorts when its chain is yanked by its rough owner, abrupt happens. Of course, money is the goal; it’s the priority in all we do, it’s the Mecca, the reason for rising early, and an annual vacation to Puerta Vallarta. Without its pursuit, wouldn’t we sputter like a fragmenting star forever?
It’s fortified brick by brick, beliefs acting like mortar making us willing participants to be trapped inside. To dream, and to dance in greener pastures are betrayals to the martyr. A thousand days and a thousand more locked in a cave of windowless stone. Of his own making. If only he knew how to lighten the load.
Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 