(no subject)

Jun 27, 2005 10:48

It's strange, living from boxes in a stripped bare square of a room, tomorrow being my return to a meditative quiet space back home, back in the trailer, back where thinking is the most important thing. I'm tired of acting. And when I say that, I mean that here I have become nothing more than an automaton, doing dull things, the things one must.

This week will determine if I will kill myself all summer for quite a bit of money or if I will enjoy the priceless experience of quiet. Of writing, of waiting for beauty to present itself, knowing it will because I'll be listening so hard.

There are lots of things vested in this week, where I may say "enough" to this bullshit, this office where I am too crowded and too in sync with what everyone else is doing. I hate the part of myself that will stay if/when they offer me the anticipated $25+ an hour. I hate the greed reaction, the part of me that's so superficial I can't stand it. I should pay $25/hour for the privilege of gardening with my mom and tutoring my nephew.

I might buy a ratty old convertible and take trips by myself. I may drive for the pleasure of no one knowing where I am, like those times in NY where I feel beautifully alone.
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