A secret the spoilt, cynical kids never tell you about:
Especially the restless ones, have this ability to cut any
emotional commitment off when the itch arises. Work is weary? Quit. People are tiresome?
Cut them off. Why resist anything but the satisfaction you have already
intended?
It’s a thin line.
I am grateful for a job, for the ability to be productive,
for the independence it allows me. I am appreciative of the support they have
provided, the experience and knowledge I have gained, the tolerance it builds.
I’m not sure why, then, I feel like I’m selling out. The
work may not be the most inspiring, but that’s life, isn’t it? What else is success
and ambition but the reaching for our illusive potential?
I am thankful for the good and healthy working hours, the
chance for my beliefs on work to be re-constructed in a manner closer to the
base of reality, the relative space the train ride home affords for me to read.
To not have to worry about money, to not need to roam the internet fruitlessly
for a livelihood, to not have to despair over grueling interviews and
inevitable rejections.
“With each decision, we tell ourselves and the world what we
stand for.”
From seeking something we are passionate about, we settle
for something that maximizes the time we can expend in that passion. Our souls are not compromised, when we know what we truly are.
Every day before work, I tuck my kindle back into my bag. I draw it out on the train, eager and grateful for the brief time we have
together. Lunch is a dilemma – is food really that necessary? Yes, it always is.
Emails come in. The clock ticks. And the ride home is a tired and bitter reunion
after missing a part of ourselves.
From what little time we find for that passion, we settle
yet for narcotic thoughts of what could have been.
“We define
ourselves by our actions.”
That tiny, secret part of who we are lies dormant in
everyday life. But it is fragile, and the current of pushing and frustration
tears at the memory of it. One day in the future, it would have dissipated.
All feeling is lost, but if nothing was felt, was it ever there to begin with?
