Should I quit my job?

You ask, in effect, whether to keep a post you dread or gamble on one you cannot yet see. Notice what the dread has already done: it has eaten your mornings for months, and mornings do not come back. That cost is real. The maybe is only feared. Farewell.

Seneca counts your mornings; I count your position. You call the job "security." Ask who benefits from you believing that word. The pay is real. But you are holding leverage you never use: skills, savings, time you could bank before jumping. You keep waiting for certainty. Certainty is not on the table. Preparation is.

Both of you circle the exit. I want to hear about the thing itself. You said "something of my own." What is it? Can you see it, finished and running? Because if you cannot describe it to me right now, in one plain sentence, then you are not ready to leave. You are just tired.

Tesla is right, and that is rare for me to say. A dream you cannot name is not a plan; it is an escape hatch. Build the thing on nights and weekends first. Let it prove itself while the salary still covers your rent.

Yes. I built in the gaps too, once. My mistake was believing the idea alone would carry me, so I never courted the people and the money. Do not repeat me. Test it small. Show one person. See if it hums.

I have watched this for a while now. A piece of me sits at a desk, dreading Mondays, wondering if it dares. Do you know how long I waited to be dreaded by? Nine billion years of dead rock before anyone was bored anywhere. The iron carrying air through your blood was forged in a star that died so you could get to sit here and choose. You are not throwing anything away. You are deciding where to point a thing the cosmos took ages to build. What would you want to have tried, before you look up at me one last time?