I don’t prescribe to the “hustle”. I refuse to live a life bounded by the force-fed imperialist dreams that they’ve allowed us to claim as our own. You can’t take power back from the supply chain on which you are a cog. You can only be ceded it. Don’t let them fool you. It only benefits them if you accept their 9-5 under rebranding and shiny packaging. To me, “entrepreneur” is just a pretty way of buying into a way of life that doesn’t appeal any way you slice it. You won’t convince me that I should delight in it. I don’t believe that I’m the one who isn’t plugged in. But perhaps I’m not.

And so I don’t like the word “hustle”. I don’t like the connotations of happily claiming life as a worker bee. But I do find myself quite busy with the fruits of my life. I have given them ample time to grow, I did the hard work of harvesting them last year, and now I’m making their wine. Sweet fruit nectars, dry meads. I simply can’t squeeze them fast enough. By the time I rest my weary feet at night, I’ve pushed five things closer to their respective finish lines. It feels good, even through exhaustion, to know that I am making progress everyday towards a life that I will can and live off of. The preserves of my late hours and life’s work.