The Buddha is belated
It's very bizzare knowing that Fairfield doesn't happen this September.
I've returned to my humble post in Long Beach City Hall as a Public Relations clerk. I like the office, I love the people - I even like the work well enough. I'm primarily here to make posters, newsletters and other publications, and to make them look pretty. I like my job. I'm good at my job. There's speculation that I might be able to move in full-time and become the new Public Relations officer. The pay increase and benefits would be nice, but the politics and grotesque social networks and rivalries in this place are nauseatingly complex and difficult to break through. We'll see.
I'm in a fugue, a haze. The real world is officially here, and once more I've got no clue what I'm doing with myself. I've become a member of a well-populated club: post-graduates who quickly move back home and live with their parents indefinitely. I don't like this club. Yet I find myself perfectly incapable of making any proactive or motivated efforts to change my situation.
I'm tired. I'm lonely. I'm quick to anger and frustration. My ability to maintain an air of indifference is dwindling. I'm bitter and old and cynical decades before I'm due. And yet...
This summer I found satisfaction in car trips: fly fishers in thigh-high waders, green valleys and mountains sprawling outside car windows. I found satisfaction in family, finding acceptance in new places and slowing down to breathe once in a while. I found satisfaction in looking ridiculous, dancing down hallways and twirling into an office, playing West Side Story on the office TV for the second-and-a-half time, in realizing that if you can't find it all a bit ridiculous, at least enough to laugh at it all for a minute, then you might be too far lost already.
I've returned to my humble post in Long Beach City Hall as a Public Relations clerk. I like the office, I love the people - I even like the work well enough. I'm primarily here to make posters, newsletters and other publications, and to make them look pretty. I like my job. I'm good at my job. There's speculation that I might be able to move in full-time and become the new Public Relations officer. The pay increase and benefits would be nice, but the politics and grotesque social networks and rivalries in this place are nauseatingly complex and difficult to break through. We'll see.
I'm in a fugue, a haze. The real world is officially here, and once more I've got no clue what I'm doing with myself. I've become a member of a well-populated club: post-graduates who quickly move back home and live with their parents indefinitely. I don't like this club. Yet I find myself perfectly incapable of making any proactive or motivated efforts to change my situation.
I'm tired. I'm lonely. I'm quick to anger and frustration. My ability to maintain an air of indifference is dwindling. I'm bitter and old and cynical decades before I'm due. And yet...
This summer I found satisfaction in car trips: fly fishers in thigh-high waders, green valleys and mountains sprawling outside car windows. I found satisfaction in family, finding acceptance in new places and slowing down to breathe once in a while. I found satisfaction in looking ridiculous, dancing down hallways and twirling into an office, playing West Side Story on the office TV for the second-and-a-half time, in realizing that if you can't find it all a bit ridiculous, at least enough to laugh at it all for a minute, then you might be too far lost already.