Rote

Success is the result of sustained, consistent effort over long periods of time—and, to me, routine has always been the key to consistency. I enjoy sharpening my skills bit by bit, preferably at the same hour every day.

This the magic of shonen, samurai movies, Hamlet, and revenge stories in general—the hero who’s weaker than his foes but patiently outworks them over time.

Yet a life spent in that sigma-male-grindset is a life not worth living. You need chaos, randomness, and novelty—you need the Dionysian—to thrive. Life happens precisely when routine breaks—when storms hit to disrupt the rhythm of sunsets and sunrises you’re used to.

I don’t think routine and freedom are necessarily at odds. There might even be a subtle synergy between the two. Breaking a habit is all the more liberating when you’ve been clinging to it diligently. Watching the dawn with your lover is sweeter against a backdrop of nights slept through.

Daily rituals are the trellis onto which the vines of zest can climb.

(Only kitsch metaphors today, I know. I’m afraid it’s not just a phase.)

This is why I write metrical poetry. Stiff poetic metre must be paired with playfulness and nonchalance in content to not feel dry. When properly done, tight form is a vessel that gives shelter and contours to the haphazardness of your words.

In essence (and ideally), this is also what being a man feels like—strict rind with a brazen pith.