Me: We should start. Also Me: We should check email first. Me: You said that yesterday. Also Me: Yesterday didn’t count. Today’s different. Me: Resistance again, huh? Also Me: Don’t call me that. I’m protecting you. Me: From what? Also Me: From failure. From being seen. From doing something that might actually matter.
(pause)
The cursor blinks. It always waits longer than I do.
Every creative act is a battle between the worker and the whisper. One shows up. The other makes excuses. One builds a life; the other defends comfort.
Pressfield calls that whisper “Resistance,” and he’s right; it’s clever, patient, and always dressed as something reasonable: a full inbox, a cluttered desk, a “need to think it through.”
But the professional knows the only cure is motion. Sit down. Touch the keys. Paint the line. Pluck the string. Whatever your weapon is, use it before Resistance remembers where you live.
When I finally type the first sentence, the voice quiets. Not gone, just outnumbered.
