![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
This morning I wrote in my paper journal, among other sentences, this:
"Is it possible that I am me again?"
I'm currently drinking what I like to call a bomb-shelter mocha: two spoonfuls of nesquik, two spoonfuls of powdered cream-like whitener, and drip coffee. Though a true version would be two spoonfuls of instant coffee. It's pretty nasty, yet I drink it anyway.
In a strange way, this answers my own question. Yes, yes I am.
My daily routine is currently toxic, like Britney Spears. On one hand I don't want to be this cliched person who just complains and rants about their dayjob, but on the other, I know I'm a chronic minimizer and the more realistic I can be about the detrimental effects, the more I can push myself to fix, to change. At home I dread the clock ticking towards 8:30, the time I should leave, but usually the time I decide to get dressed. It pushes past 9, the time I should arrive at the office, but usually the time I decide to walk the dog and fix my to-go cup of coffee. Then comes 9:20, the time I leave the house, often under the guise of a waiting for a ride to the train station, but I'm obviously in no hurry.
In the morning I frown and furrow and my heart sinks when I think of my day, how ill-fitting this part of my life feels. The further weight on my heart of inertia, the fear of making actual change and lack of confidence in my ability to do so. I think I should just suck it up. This is what people do. They hate their work, they do it anyway.
But in the elevator a song comes into my headphones and I dance. I dance in the elevator, alone, in front of the mirror, a moment of pure elation. I step out onto my floor and keep dancing, even as I walk and unlock the back door of the office. This tells me something. That I'm inherently, and often despite myself, an optimist. I want to find pleasure and joy and be happy.
Then I go back and re-read some pieces I've written and I impress myself. I think jesus christ, what the hell am I doing here?
So now I say it aloud. Not in the interest of complaining, but in the interest of motivation.
I will complete a short to-do list, to earn my bread, my rent, my small sense of obligation to this organization. And then I will have lunch with my best friend. And then I will spend the afternoon doing something with all of this information.
"Is it possible that I am me again?"
I'm currently drinking what I like to call a bomb-shelter mocha: two spoonfuls of nesquik, two spoonfuls of powdered cream-like whitener, and drip coffee. Though a true version would be two spoonfuls of instant coffee. It's pretty nasty, yet I drink it anyway.
In a strange way, this answers my own question. Yes, yes I am.
My daily routine is currently toxic, like Britney Spears. On one hand I don't want to be this cliched person who just complains and rants about their dayjob, but on the other, I know I'm a chronic minimizer and the more realistic I can be about the detrimental effects, the more I can push myself to fix, to change. At home I dread the clock ticking towards 8:30, the time I should leave, but usually the time I decide to get dressed. It pushes past 9, the time I should arrive at the office, but usually the time I decide to walk the dog and fix my to-go cup of coffee. Then comes 9:20, the time I leave the house, often under the guise of a waiting for a ride to the train station, but I'm obviously in no hurry.
In the morning I frown and furrow and my heart sinks when I think of my day, how ill-fitting this part of my life feels. The further weight on my heart of inertia, the fear of making actual change and lack of confidence in my ability to do so. I think I should just suck it up. This is what people do. They hate their work, they do it anyway.
But in the elevator a song comes into my headphones and I dance. I dance in the elevator, alone, in front of the mirror, a moment of pure elation. I step out onto my floor and keep dancing, even as I walk and unlock the back door of the office. This tells me something. That I'm inherently, and often despite myself, an optimist. I want to find pleasure and joy and be happy.
Then I go back and re-read some pieces I've written and I impress myself. I think jesus christ, what the hell am I doing here?
So now I say it aloud. Not in the interest of complaining, but in the interest of motivation.
I will complete a short to-do list, to earn my bread, my rent, my small sense of obligation to this organization. And then I will have lunch with my best friend. And then I will spend the afternoon doing something with all of this information.
