Friday, March 19, 2004
mid life angst
mid life angst
It's been ages since I've written.
I have nothing to say.
Where once were words, a gray smudge. A worn-down eraser stub. Blue lint. A nickel and two dimes. A wad of gum stuck to the bottom of a shoe.
Driving home from work: green-black trees stretched austere against the faded cerulean sky, slipping white into snow-covered earth. The landscape of my mind: high contrast. Gradations of feeling blanched out of the print. Over-exposed. Bound for the shredder.
How can a day take so much out of a person? The week isn't so bad, the month, the year passes by almost too quickly -- it's just the day that kills you.
There's almost nothing worth saying about the hours that make up these days that are killing me. "The medium is the message," says that sage old Communicator from beyond the grave. The content is fine, the problem is in the delivery. This is what I keep saying when asked: I don't mind my job, it's the company I hate.
To say I don't fit in there is an understatement. Mostly they don't notice. Mostly they don't see me. And it's safer that way. But negation is exhausting. And some days I forget that there is more to me than just not being them.
I've long given up on trying to point out the emperor's absence of suitable attire. Naked as a jay-bird, but nobody really cares. It's just a charade. I'm the one who's too literal. After all, it's not about whether an idea is good or not, it's about whether everyone else thinks it's good. And moreover, whether everyone else thinks everyone else thinks it's good.
It's like being back in high school, with all the Cool-Kids and Wannabes. The Nerds have all been laid off. The Skaters and the Freaks were never hired to start with. What am I doing here? It's like a bad dream. And I can't remember my locker combination.
I drive home, thinking nothing thoughts. Nothing nothing nothing…and yet, why does my head feel like it's going to explode?
I get home to Nothing To Do On A Friday Night. I want to bang my head against the wall. I want to hide under the bed with my cat. I want someone to be here to take me to a movie, to take me out of my misery, to tell me to quit whining. Or something.
But there's no one. Just me.
I seek refuge in bourbon and oatmeal cookies.
¶ 3/19/2004 06:32:00 PM
It's been ages since I've written.
I have nothing to say.
Where once were words, a gray smudge. A worn-down eraser stub. Blue lint. A nickel and two dimes. A wad of gum stuck to the bottom of a shoe.
Driving home from work: green-black trees stretched austere against the faded cerulean sky, slipping white into snow-covered earth. The landscape of my mind: high contrast. Gradations of feeling blanched out of the print. Over-exposed. Bound for the shredder.
How can a day take so much out of a person? The week isn't so bad, the month, the year passes by almost too quickly -- it's just the day that kills you.
There's almost nothing worth saying about the hours that make up these days that are killing me. "The medium is the message," says that sage old Communicator from beyond the grave. The content is fine, the problem is in the delivery. This is what I keep saying when asked: I don't mind my job, it's the company I hate.
To say I don't fit in there is an understatement. Mostly they don't notice. Mostly they don't see me. And it's safer that way. But negation is exhausting. And some days I forget that there is more to me than just not being them.
I've long given up on trying to point out the emperor's absence of suitable attire. Naked as a jay-bird, but nobody really cares. It's just a charade. I'm the one who's too literal. After all, it's not about whether an idea is good or not, it's about whether everyone else thinks it's good. And moreover, whether everyone else thinks everyone else thinks it's good.
It's like being back in high school, with all the Cool-Kids and Wannabes. The Nerds have all been laid off. The Skaters and the Freaks were never hired to start with. What am I doing here? It's like a bad dream. And I can't remember my locker combination.
I drive home, thinking nothing thoughts. Nothing nothing nothing…and yet, why does my head feel like it's going to explode?
I get home to Nothing To Do On A Friday Night. I want to bang my head against the wall. I want to hide under the bed with my cat. I want someone to be here to take me to a movie, to take me out of my misery, to tell me to quit whining. Or something.
But there's no one. Just me.
I seek refuge in bourbon and oatmeal cookies.
¶ 3/19/2004 06:32:00 PM
