Another Day in the Office

Another day in the office. The dark taste of the two-hour old coffee staining your breath as you struggle to find something to fill your time until the next coffee and then lunch. You can’t be the only one struggling to look busy in this world, although you have ended up in this position more often than not since you started working, Christ is it 14 years ago?

Life by now has settled down into a marathon pace, replacing the mad sprints that felt like your professional life in your twenties. The realisation that constant gut flogging and nervous energy, whilst good for making an impression is not the route to a long life, or indeed career. Along with this feeling is the notion that at some point, this will all stop, death will inevitably come, no doubt at a most unexpected point and that is in itself a strange comforting thought. This really all does not matter at all. Further reason to treat this as a marathon.

An interesting realisation come lately, is that you are now too old, no, not too old, you have, currently at least, too many reliance’s on you to allow you to switch career and in fact perhaps, this is a good thing. You have previously always thought of yourself as a person out of sorts, a creative in a technical position or vice versa and whilst this has been a strength it has potentially also been somewhat of a hindrance as you may have never fully engaged with the position you are in, which may have added to your feeling of unease. Always striving to be something else, will never result in feeling happy with your current position, both at work and in life.

What is the point of this? Why are you writing this spew of thoughts? Is it ego? The thought that other people may have some interest in what you’re saying. Is it misdirected effort from the fourth novel, which is proving too hard to write as basically you are bored with the task you’ve set yourself and writing if anything must be engaging to the author surely, otherwise how can it be engaging to the end reader?

Gah what a blessing and a hindrance, this constant burn to put words on paper, or at least to turn words in your head into pixels on a white screen resembling paper. Perhaps it is a method to clarify the whirling noise in your brain, some attempt via writing to collect your thoughts into some sense of meaning, purpose, potential. Why do you default to writing to yourself as if you are leaving a note? Are you trying to write for posterity, the future you, looking back on these snatched moments, the act of writing hazy, but the words locked down in perfect clarity?

A new format is required, these substandard diary-esque posts are neither interesting or engaging of your brain and the novels, well they are too much of a long term process. Essays, these are the key, observational commentary gobbets about life to focus on once a week.

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