Work has been frisking me up at its greediest. September spells out Busy Times, with few moments to ruminate with enough reminders that I myself signed up, fully aware, to be part of a career with erratic demands. It’s true that I came seeking for succinct views on the gloss (and dullness) of other industries and people. I fancied myself too delicate and not quite quick enough for reality, unintentionally soft-spoken even in the face of discomfort. And so I wanted to be roughened up, to be resilient and uncomfortable enough to be cornered into growth. There is a fear of succumbing into all the bad in being another Gen-Y caricature – self-entitled, weak-willed in the face of difficulties, finicky. But resiliency itself is an interesting concept; aside from knocking endurance into a person, you begin to wonder what sense there is in toughness after you’ve smarted from the skinned knees, still buzzing from the adrenaline. Humor me this – is resiliency even practical anymore in the 21st century? What am I looking to survive? Society’s expectations, routine, getting older, the aches of living, your attention span, social incapacities, delicately diverting self from bae? Yet I am proud when I do well in a role that was never designed with somebody like me in mind. I am just doing my job, after all, and there is a certain pride in being able to honor that role.
This is the part where I acquiesce my mortal fears. Admittedly, the fear of underachieving greets me frequently and sometimes overwhelmingly so. I’ve been having trouble in my skin again and thinking almost wildly about writing because, intuitively, this is what makes the most sense to me, this need to reconcile concepts and thoughts. There is a living, breathing affair with words that I can’t pinpoint aside from that I want to do it all the time, that I think about it actively and ardently, and that I do it in the hope that something good will come of it, without the expectancy of great recognition but reward in inspiring some modicum of meaning. In an ideal world there would be a day dedicated to dreaming and it wouldn’t be idle and pointless dreaming because it would do society a whole great deal of good.
It’s getting late and I should be getting to bed. This entry is a little bit of a wild card, the rare occasion where I am taking the time to express the messy state of rumpled, tired thinking. In the morning things will dwindle down and make more sense again and perhaps this too will be forgotten.
Good night, good night, go to sleep.