After a vigorous yoga session, the next day my body feels stiffer, as if it has become even more stiff than before. I look at myself in the mirror and tell myself that this is part of the process. Not to be doubtful, nor afraid, but to trust the process.

Yet the progress is mostly invisible.

It feels a lot like editing the second draft of my novel.

Frustrating, sure. The ending is promised, but it is still so far away that sometimes it feels like a lie. The question becomes: who lied to me? If there is no one but ourselves, the answer comes by itself.

This is where writing and yoga are similar again. I do both every day, and every day they test me on the same thing: my patience. My urge for quick gratification.

Time and time again, they make me ask myself why I am doing this if there is no point, no echo, no scratch.

Sisyphus and Wu Gang are both punished to do repetitive work towards a goal that can never be reached. I have asked myself whether I am being punished, too. (Sorry for being so dramatic. Also, not sorry, for I’m a writer.)

But if I were, what have I done wrong?

And the one who traps me in this punishment is myself. By my own choice, though.

Not to mention that writing and practising yoga are not the same, and neither is this punishment. It is only my belief, and the goal I have set for myself.

Most of the things in life that are meaningful imply delayed gratification. Right?

That is why taking notes every day is such a good way to see the progress.

One journal for yoga, recording what my body tells me that day, and how well my breathing is doing.

One journal for writing: words, ideas, pages worked through. How the characters have evolved, how the plot lines have become fuller, enriched with emotions and sensations.

Every breath counts.

Every thought, idea, feeling, sentence and word counts.