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Sometimes it's hard to imagine what it's like not to complain about something.

Considering my job is to literally complain about details, I hate it.

I actually hate my job.

Mind you, I don't hate my job.

I actually have one of the most amazing jobs ever.

The ability to make decisions. The ability to be held responsible for them.

The ability to be held responsible for them.

Mind you, I am not afraid of responsibility, I'm afraid of when it is misappropriated.

Good or bad.

Regardless, I think what I'm saying is that I'm recognizing my impact here.

When I write with advances being made in matters miniscule, I am complaining.

No matter how it's framed, a complaint is still a complaint.

It's still tearing away from the point of a matter.

Which is to uplift and inspire.

Complaining doesn't get us anywhere in the cause of being the instrument to our own cause.

What I'm saying is that complaining holds us back from actually getting shit done.

In fact, it's just further detracting from the goal of getting shit done, even if it's just to cook dinner.

Mind you, complaining is a natural part of life.

It's indicative of the obstacles we are up against or, even better, what we're being caught up within.

If something did not bother us, we would not complain about it.

I repeat, if it does not bother us, we would not even give it energy.

Energy put toward something looks like the time we spend looking to prove ourselves right.

Energy put toward something looks like the words we use when we refer to one another.

Energy put toward something looks like the actions we take in service of ourselves over each other.

Maybe the point of this entry is to punctuate the flow with a little bit of pause.

A pause for ourselves to say, I can complain a lot.

It does not matter how much others complain, what matters is how much I complain.

Airing complaints is letting evil win.

Agreeing with another when they choose to speak ill of an acquaintance is a matter of tragedy.

Tragedy toward the cause of fighting what irks us all.

A shame in the face of what awaits us when we look back on ourselves.

A small window of time that may be, but one writ with our attitudes and underscored by our legacies.