Sometimes the world (read:work) is a little too much. This is an attempt to write from around 230am one night in May 2016.
I don’t have words. I see things that would inspire words, but try as I might, search as I must, I cannot find my words. Sometimes, I hear them, like whispers in the wind, but when I concentrate they slip away. There is too much else on my mind.
My words come from my emotions. When I’m feeling I’m writing. These days I’m not feeling; Just drowning in someone else’s deadlines and having trouble identifying myself in the mirror. Where is Pavi?
Part of me is locked inside the chest of a man who doesn’t want me, on the other side of the world, struggling to get out. The other part of me, the greater part of me, is slaving away day after day, night after night, with some ridiculous idea that I am fulfilled by this work. I tell people I love my job, that it’s inspiring and wondrous. I tell myself more than anything, that this is the time to work hard, and do what it takes.
But to what end? There is no end besides death. Whoever said “it’s not in the destination, but in the journey” got it right, because why the fuck am I working so hard???? So that I can live a happy life some day?!?!?! Someday is TODAY.
What if everyone woke up one day and decided not to work. What if we all collectively decided this paper/plastic/polymer currency we’ve created really is an imagined value, and is not worth a single sleepless night? What would happen? What if we started working for something material? Paid the farmer, with the strength of my hands for a bag of rice? What would I do with my time if I didn’t have to work?
I keep telling myself that “someday” I will rent/buy a small house by the sea.
But for the life of me I don’t know what I will do once I have the house.
There is nothing in this life. Absolutely nothing. People are destroying the world- but the world will be fine, it’s the people who will perish. There is no end in sight, just more days of doing “something” because doing nothing is not an option.