Nobody on planet earth knows what I’m up to.
Not my wife, my business partner or my mom. Nobody. I don’t dwell on it much because I already know I’ve wasted years of my life on some sort of delusional mania. I’ve got an epic amount of balls in play right now, and soon, the harvest starts.
I’ve told people bits and pieces. People that have inspired me to do more ought hear that they are having an impact. It’s for their benefit, not mine, to sustain and fortify them to make them know that their work has a purpose. One of the things that sustained me when I was struggling harder was the people that wrote me to say “thanks, man.”
Restraining myself against the urge to brag, the urge to write incessant mission statements, the urge to make everything into a weight and measure has meant something tangible: I’ve accomplished more in 18 months than I have over the last 10 years. I’ve gotten to be more useful to others.
I can’t say exactly how, how often. I still feel like I probably brag too much, relative to what I’ve done, and I look towards the time where I can just exist without having to exchange facts for approbation.
After a time, it’s kind of fun having secret plans, secret ideas, and hidden objectives. You feel like you know a little more than others, and the tension behind keeping a secret is a fun way to live your life.