Work, or, Why All My Friends Never Hear From Me And Think I've Died
When I sleep I dream
only of the next day.
When I wake I think
only of time.
For 60 hours a week, I feel I don't belong to me. What time is left is spent before it's earned. I miss my books and my projects. My head hurts from not writing and my heart hurts from not singing. In the few minutes I find my glorious room, my beloved chair, my back is filled with iron rods, and the muscles in my feet make me think of toes being bound. I need distraction, something to flip my switch to 'off' before I have to turn back on the next day, or the next hour. My body demands stillness, but the world demands more; movement.
Not to say I give myself away only to prove something to you. No. I don't mean to complain.
Whether joyous or draining, a day of my work does not feel like struggle. I feel the strength in my body through the heaviness in my bones. When they sigh they tell me I am in the world.
Even with the sacrifices, I have replaced my old loves for a love of today's work, for how it will bring me closer to the crest of this hill, seeing over into tomorrow, with its comfort coming, its fields of freedom getting closer. I love racing towards it like a dragonfly. I move fast all day, to feel the exhaustion like a bell ringing in the church inside my chest, its song a prayer: "Soon, soon."