Maybe it's the time of year, winter having long worn out its welcome while spring remains little more than a distant hope. The mixed emotions of the holidays are long past and the bills are almost, but not quite, paid off. The memory of old hurts are as faded as those of recent highs. A palpable lull, easily interpreted as smooth sailing or the calm before the storm.
My head is in a million places these days, unable to focus on anything specific, for better or worse.
Work is in limbo as I await my one-year review, pretty sure it won't be bad but doubtful that it will be good enough to lift the melancholy that envelops the increasingly long hours between 9am and 5pm. The only thing worse than a job you hate is one you feel complete apathy towards. Hate is at least an energetic emotion that demands action.
The tangible results of the kind of marketing I'm doing now are completely unfulfilling. Doesn't even come close to the nourishment from a room full of people attending an event you put together - whether it's six for a session of D&D, or 100 for a poetry reading.
I have no interest in running another poetry reading.
Given a choice between a high-paying corporate job in the city and a back-breaking service job in a small town, I often believe I'd prefer the latter. Money doesn't motivate me, passion does. I desire the intangible.
I want to work with my hands again.
Escape from New York reminds me that I live here as much because I want to as that I have to. Or think I do, at least. Nowhere else compares to it. A double-edged sword.
I marvel that more people don't snap during rush hour, unfamiliar bodies unwillingly pressed against each other, some enjoying the opportunity to connect more than others. There are days I'd give it all up for a small house in the country with just enough land to not always be aware of the fence around it.
I am happy, but not content.