The Pervasive Low-Grade Misery of Neglecting your Dreams

I am reading The War of Art, by Steven Pressfield about a demonic force called Resistance—which conspires to prevent writers writing, painters painting, composers composers, the overweight exercising… You get the picture.

And here’s another brilliant passage from The War of Art

 Resistance and Unhappiness

What does resistance feel like?

First, unhappiness. We feel like hell. A low-grade misery pervades everything. We’re bored; we’re restless. We can’t get no satisfaction. There’s guilt, but we can’t put our finger on the source. We want to go back to bed; we want to get up and party. We feel unloved and unlovable. We’re disgusted. We hate our lives. We hate ourselves.

Unalleviated, Resistance mounts to a pitch that becomes unendurable. At this point, vices kick in. Dope, adultery, web surfing.

Beyond that, Resistance becomes clinical. Depression, aggression, dysfunction.

Sounds like life I know. It isn’t. It’s Resistance.

What makes it tricky is that we live in a consumer culture that’s acutely aware of this unhappiness and has massed all its profit-seeking artillery to exploit it. By selling us a product, a drug, a distraction.

As artists and professionals, it is our obligation to enact our own internal revolution, a private insurrection inside our own skulls. We unplug from the grid by recognising that we will never cure our restlessness by contributing to the bottom line of Bullshit Inc. but only by doing our work.