| I've recently come to learn the value of not having very vocal viewers, I can basically get anything off of my shoulders, publicly, and without worry. That having been said: Chapter One - Wide-Eyed and Bushy Tailed I've been unemployed for over three months at this point. I'd like to say that I was laid off, but it was more like I gave them the excuse to not have to lay someone off; I had an unintentional altercation with a coworker, which more or less amounted to a bit of social stupidity on my part. A lot of social stupidity on my part. The root of the matter is that I'm bored. I'm very bored. The days fly by as if they never were there to begin with, and though I've applied to an average of FOUR jobs PER DAY I still haven't found any gainful employment. Not even in Oregon, our new locale. I mean, sure, I've picked up on a lot of things that I'd been meaning to but wouldn't because fifty weekly hours of work was awfully draining: I've written multiple short stories, worked on existing (long) stories, taken to a lot of the crafting I had meant to (see also: invisible bookshelves), read books, even took up spray paint painting (which has been put on hold until I no longer lack black). But even with all of that, my day is just so empty and lonely and boring, and I just feel so worthless. And I understand now how helpful work can be. I just want life in every word, to the extent that it's absurd. Chapter Two - My Descent in to Dissent I feel somehow like I've mentioned this before, somewhere. But I'm terrified. The only thing I'm afraid of, really afraid of. Like the dull ache of worn muscles, a constant mild distress that occasionally explodes in to severe depression; not like the sharp, sudden pain of fearing heights or insects or fearing things in general. I'm so afraid of death, but not my own. I'm afraid of everything dying around me, all of the things I love slowly disappearing. I know this is the course of life, I understand that, I know that you lose the things you love and find more repeatedly throughout your life for many reasons (not just death), like a cycle that only ends for you with your passing. But I just can't accept it, sometimes. Maybe it's a sign that I'm too set in my ways, but the thought of losing anything within this microcosmic family we've developed makes my stomach churn and my brain sweat. I would gladly embrace my own death over watching my wife or my animals disappear; and as horrible or selfish as it is, I sometimes even beckon it as a reasonable alternative. ----- -I know this is horribly written, the grammar is even atrocious, but as ridiculously OCD I am about the structure of my writing, I'm glad to know that it really doesn't matter. -If anyone reads this, they should listen to Jeffrey Lewis, he's better than the Moldy Peaches, and not quite Kimya's solo works, but you'll hear the parallel if you know these bands. |
