“What do you do?”

What I say when I’m asked, “What do you do?”

I work at mind altering heights dangling from a gigantic mechanized fishing rod, or even closer to space hanging from thousands of teeny hairs twisted together, or as a target under multiple sky workers cutting thousands of pounds of debris near me on towering, water-filled conductive plants near power lines with enough electricity to kill me 10,000 times over.

I work with razor sharp cutting implements that could cut of any of my limbs off in an instant. I drag tree body parts over muscle tearing, joint popping terrain, day in and day out. I feed the tree bodies into enormous people-shredding machines on roads packed with clueless zombies and wheeled steel coffins driven at break-necking speeds by oblivious distracted people that cannot see me.

I do not need to do this work. I choose to do this work. I want to do this work. I love to do this work.

This is not work.

This is life.

My mouth drools in anticipation of the challenges this life offers. I look forward to pushing myself past the limit of my abilities to finish what I start. I savor the obstacles fate puts in my path and use them to sharpen my skills and strengthen myself.

What do I do? I challenge myself to take this life to dare greatly and to pursue the triumph of high achievement. What will I do? In the end, I will lay peacefully, knowing I’ve spent myself in a worthy cause.

Author: jamesflawith

I am attempting to raise 3 young boys with my wife while running 2 totally different companies. One way I try to stay sane is by writing. Notice the word "try" in there.