I have just two minutes to tell you something. Something that will make clicking on my blog worthwhile. There just isn’t enough time for me to sit down and write a lengthy post about rowing or life or whatever. I only have these two minutes.
This is the squeeze. No time. Frantic. Need. Fear. Every moment that goes by without saying something you care about feels like eons. And you can’t get any of those moments back. The squeeze is strong.
It’s like being rolled through a pasta attachment over and over again until you are a thinned out, stringy, muted version of yourself. All of the things you wanted to say and do pressed and repressed until you have no fight left in you to reconstitute yourself. Big doughy dreams pressed and cut into monotonous strips of linguine. The squeeze doesn’t care about your dreams.
The only recourse is to sit down, write, and do something. Maybe you end up tortellini instead, but at least you still have something inside you worth fighting for. Squeeze back and never let up.
