You have to write. If you can write. So I write. Because I need to keep myself fresh and challenged in my fantastic life.
Fantastic indeed. Because, 80% of the time I can set my own hours. A dream come true, 'that I created,' he exclaimed with self-satisfaction. And rightly so, of course. The next step is 100% my own time, 0 obligations, 0 pressure. This week, it suddenly felt like I had retired. At 41. Damn it. What a great thought!
But how?! You might ask. I'm far from a millionaire, but I do have my affairs in order with a few income streams that cover my living expenses. And La Hoff, my wife, also works.
That provides a comfortable income, so I can almost exclusively do what I enjoy. Like this Breuker Journal.
Because, I believe that pressure and stress simply don't work for me at this stage. Deadlines and that whole law of whatever that says work gets done in the time allotted. It's not practical for me at all and definitely doesn't lead to creatively superior work. I do have goals, but if I don't achieve them, I won't beat myself up anymore. The ego is an ugly, seven-headed dragon that needs to be kept in check every day.
Pressure and stress literally make me sick. I've worked hard enough to get the basics in order and focus on what's truly important; health. Physical and mental. When that's in order, you glide through life and happiness and money follow in the slipstream.
Aging is no fun, physically for me anyway. My stomach and digestive system are as haughty as my ego; they only tolerate the very best. Seeds, nuts, coconut quark, and kilos of vegetables – many a parrot is deadly jealous of my diet. And getting that stuff into my mouth takes time: making soups, going to the grocery store, and most importantly, NOT doing many things.
So I dutifully walk 10,000 steps in the forest daily and top it off with a trip to the grocery store. During the day, to stroll alongside other retirees buying my nuts, coconut, and vegetables for soup. Meine Güte.
The ideas in my head tumble over each other. Like a panicked crowd all trying to be the first through a small door. Yes, some compassion is in order here. Because I want to fulfill EVERY idea, every story, every film, every painting, every street art plan. A kind of panic then washes over my body.
That little door sometimes needs to be hermetically sealed like a Chinese district with Corona, eyes closed, and take a deep breath and repeat my mantra. Mañana, mañana. A retiree has time. Death is still far away, and the ideas will keep coming anyway.