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There's a special kind of fatigue that can't be cured by weekends, coffee, or even "I'll sleep it off." It feels like noise. You're not thinking about anything... but something inside keeps humming.
This weekend I finally decided to do what I'd been putting off: prioritize my pet projects.
Honestly, my pet projects aren't just hobbies. They're an attempt to break free. To prove to myself that I can build something of my own, launch it, see results.
The problem is there are already more than one or two of these "my own" projects. Utilities, mini-SaaS, philosophical stuff, projects "for the future." The result is a feeling like I have a dozen browser tabs open in my head, each one flashing notifications.
A thought came to me that was both uncomfortable and clarifying:
perhaps the complexity in my head and background fatigue are formed by incomplete tasks.
Even when I think I'm not thinking about anything — my brain continues somewhere in the background:
And a strange paradox emerges: I'm resting, but not recovering.
The logic was simple: choose 1–2 projects that can realistically be brought to production, and freeze the rest without guilt.
Yes, I even had a list of "this now" and "that later." And in this list, ChatGPT (as an internal strict product manager) would say: "Do the karma and philosophy projects, freeze the rest."
But then the classic happened: I pick up one of the frozen projects — RePeaks.
RePeaks was originally conceived as a platform for selling/exchanging used gear. And honestly: it didn't show great results. Not because the idea was bad — but because of the market, user behavior, and the "chicken and egg" problem with content.
And precisely because of that background "brain process" that processes ideas while you think you're not thinking — a new connection came to me.
Instead of being just a "gear classifieds board," RePeaks can become a place where people:
That is: not "a marketplace for the sake of a marketplace," but a community around hiking, where gear is an organic extension.
I was also rewatching a fantastic film — "Pirates of Silicon Valley."
And I kept catching myself wondering: how did they do all this without AI?
Today you can throw in a prompt — and get a text draft, a feature framework, an architecture sketch, even a code skeleton. Back then — just your head, paper, conflict, ambition, sleepless nights, and a lot of manual work.
And you know what's the funniest part? Even with AI, the main barrier remains: choosing what exactly to finish.
It seems my task for the near future is not to "come up with more," but to:
Because perhaps productivity isn't about speed.
It's about the silence in your head that appears when you've actually finished something.