I forgot my headphones today–or, rather, the headphones I have been using are so low on battery that I didn’t bother bringing them in to work, and I’m not sure where my good ones, like my Sith hoodie and my contact lenses before them, have gone.
I am sick of the overarching feeling of being trapped. Trapped in my job, trapped in my other commitments, trapped by the very idea that I need to be a certain way or that I need to accomplish certain things, trapped by the idea that I’m not going to be able to accomplish them. I want to think I am supported–which, I guess I am in some sense–but I’m also held back. Fear is the usual culprit, of course, but there’s an element of worry and obligation, too. I’m running out of fuck-ups, and my current 99% track record of failure is getting fucking old.
I’m sick of seeing myself this way, to be honest.
Ran into a former colleague this weekend when I happened to be looking good af (at the gym, lifting heavy weights, feeling like a monster, flexing because it was cold outside and I had run out wearing only a t-shirt) and was able to pass off things being just fine.
And then I got home and needed to acknowledge things at home in a way that’s changing everything.
I’ve been told lately that it’s good to want things, but I can’t necessarily tell if it’s being said to me sarcastically or not. There’s an entire fucking artichoke of meaning and practical reality wrapped up in that which I won’t dedicate the time or words to here.
Am I really closing in on a hundred of these, finally?
I’m sitting on the eighth floor of a hospital that is part of a university that I have a marked antipathy toward. I live in enemy territory on more than one level; my children are raised around and are encouraged to befriend people who are likely my enemies, and I am stuck working myself into an early grave, and I all of this is a colossal waste of my fucking time and energy, but who am I to demand that what I do or who I am live up to what I’ve been told my potential really is?
Paradise don’t come cheap.
At least my jeans are all fitting better now.
This has been a bit less focused than some of my others, which I would feel bad about (as is my inclination) until I am reminded that the sole purpose of this exercise is simply to get things out, to mechanically put one word after another until the time is up, and I simultaneously hate that I cannot do something worthy of the ideas still rattling around this overused, overworked brain and love the fact that I’m sentimental enough to keep doing this in the first place.
Time’s up.
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