On work

I think I’ve always been the kind of person who has to account for my life in writing. When the moment feels right for it—like this early morning on a non-working holiday, cold coffee on my desk—I do like sitting down just to write. To account “what’s happened” so far, even though there’s hardly anything interesting or different (made difficult by the clockwork of having a normal job), because I like the idea I can extend thoughts onto a page by sheer articulation in words. It’s the mind thinking which makes writing, or an ordinary day like this interesting.

That part of me hasn’t changed. Still, I wish that writing came just as naturally to me, or my appreciation of poetry was as ardent as it was only less than a year ago, but because of time and circumstances and that vague institution of “adulthood,” I can’t engage poetry with the same liberties. Likewise, I’d like to think I wouldn’t have written what I did in college any other way. Robert de Niro says this in The Intern (while a mediocre film at best), “I’ve been a company man all my life.” Things are only slightly hectic now. But a few weeks down the line, it will be busy again.

All I know is that I keep learning to cherish these moments. This brief yet extended period of no obligations, no train to catch. Certainly, by working, much of the possibilities to be lost—as to enter some magical forest and just weave through there—have denuded. And yet it should be contradictory for oneself to feel lost inside of a routine. But that’s what philosophers had always explained, I suppose. Work has consequences, work has strain.


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