Sitting with The space Between Things
There’s something surreal about stripping away the things that used to fill my days. No weed. No video games. No long shifts at work forcing routine onto my body and mind. Even titrating off pantoprazole—a small pill I’ve taken every day for a year—feels symbolic. Like I’m stepping back from chemicals and distractions and facing whatever’s underneath with open eyes.
It’s uncomfortable in a way I didn’t expect.
There is suddenly space. So much space.
A month ago, if I had this time off, I would’ve been in another world: weed, gaming, YouTube rabbit holes, scrolling, random dopamine loops—entertainment everywhere. And honestly, when you live like that, you don’t notice the emptiness because it’s padded and hidden. The days blur in a numbing, pleasant flow. You escape into quests, wins, loot, next levels, fake achievements—and hours disappear.
Now I feel every minute.
When I wake up, there is just the morning.
Just me.
Just the hours of the day ahead.
Just silence.
Just the breath in my chest.
I can actually see my life now—its shape, its edges, the beautiful parts and the hard parts. And I’m learning how to sit inside that experience without running.
This is the first time in a very long time that I am truly present with my life without numbing something.
The Strange Freedom of Cutting Old Habits
Not smoking has changed the texture of my days. There’s nothing to “soften” the edges. I’m sober to my own mind—its boredom, its hunger, its restlessness, its ambition, its fear.
Video games are gone, too. That surprises people. Sometimes I get the itch to go back, to log into OSRS, finish my elite diaries and get my fire cape, feel that old thrill. But then I think: what if I just don’t?
What if I go all of 2026 without playing a single game—and channel that same energy into building the life I want?
What would I become if I refused to escape?
What would my art look like?
My body?
My financial situation?
My confidence?
My identity?
I’m curious enough to find out.
Gaming isn’t evil—but it is time. A lot of time. And my 30s feel too important to burn away behind a character screen. I want to build something physical: pyrography, paint, poetry, videos, a gallery, a property, a brand, a voice—something that lives beyond the screen.
The Void Between Distraction and Purpose
Without weed or games, I see the void. A literal space between activities—between waking up and doing something, between ideas and action.
And I realized today that space isn’t the enemy—it’s the proving ground.
I’ve been filling that space with things that matter:
finishing pyrography works
filming poems outdoors
meditating on a bench my dad built
cold showers
building my website
writing daily
journaling
reading
having real conversations with myself
Sometimes the silence reveals loneliness. That’s real.
I’m an artist, and this lifestyle is much quieter than it used to be. I don’t have Space and my tenants hanging around the house every day anymore, hyping me up. Antonio and Victoria keep to their rooms. Yellowstone used to feel like a clubhouse—Monteagle feels like adulthood.
Amanda isn’t home today; she’s up visiting family in Castle Rock. Pierre the cat is loyal and calm, but animals can’t fill every gap.
And when I sit alone, I realize something:
Artists carry solitude like a weight and a gift.
It forces us to face ourselves.
I’m noticing parts of me that were hidden:
the desire to avoid tasks I know matter
the way projects feel heavy when they’re unfinished
the truth that making videos and art without views is humbling
the feeling that success is slow and often invisible
And yet—there is a deep pride forming inside me. Because even though no one is watching, or often reading these posts, I keep creating.
That’s new. That feels like real growth.
Slowness Feels Foreign, but Necessary
I always believed productivity should feel like momentum—quick, exciting, visible. But recently, the work has felt slow, like chiseling a sculpture one scratch at a time in an empty room.
I filmed another spoken poem today at Palmer Park. The overlook was warm and sunny. I spoke words, my voice steady, my breath controlled—and published the video.
Today, not a single view. Not one.
Years ago, that would’ve devastated me. I would’ve taken it personally. I would have felt embarrassed or discouraged.
Now? It barely stings.
I’m learning that building anything meaningful takes consistency without applause. And honestly, maybe that’s the lesson of this winter for me:
To keep going anyway.
Returning to One-Task Presence
Today, my goal is to finish my Shiva pyrography piece. It has sat unfinished for months—holding power over me because starting is easy, finishing is hard. I have the face and some final details left to burn.
I want to get it done. Not perfectly—just honestly.
And maybe film the process, but probably not.
And maybe burn through the uncomfortable parts.
And maybe sell the piece for $800 or $1,000. I hope so.
I still haven’t posted any of my art for sale.
Finishing this piece isn’t about the money—it’s about proving to myself that I can complete what I start.
I’m also tapering off pantoprazole—taking it every other day for a month, then every third day in February. It’s odd how even something small like medication routine ties into identity.
I want to heal my throat and gut through natural means: diet, lifestyle choices, and supplements.
Just me.
Just reality.
Just breath and purpose.
The Healing Phase Between Identities
I’m healing my groin.
Healing my gut.
Healing my mind.
Healing my habits.
Healing my relationship to my time.
Healing patterns I’ve had since childhood.
This season isn’t glamorous.
It isn’t loud.
It’s internal.
It feels like standing in the hallway between two rooms:
One behind me full of distraction and entertainment.
One ahead full of purpose, art, and potential.
And I’m not rushing through the hallway this time. I want to feel it.
What I’m Learning in the Quiet
A few truths are landing for me lately:
presence is harder than productivity
views don’t define value
silence reveals identity
consistency matters more than speed
art isn’t supposed to be comfortable
growth demands boredom
the body and mind need space to heal
the internet is not a measure of purpose
solitude isn’t punishment—it’s training
I don’t think I need to become louder—
I need to become deeper.
Closing Thought
It’s strange to be here—retired from gaming, sober from weed, walking through injury, building art for almost no audience, talking into a camera after years of wanting to film myself, trying to turn inner work into outer beauty.
But I think this is exactly where I’m supposed to be.
I’d rather feel the edges of my life than smooth them away.
I’d rather stare into the quiet than hide from it.
I’d rather build slowly than escape quickly.
The space between distraction and purpose isn’t empty—
it’s full of the person I’m becoming.
And I want to meet him fully awake.
