Time, ah time (at work)
Posted: June 9th, 2009, 1:39 pm
There are weeks here at work, where time stretches into an elongated spectrum of tedium.
Oh sure, there is work to be done. Paper in need of copying, filing. Data to be entered, consolidated, analyzed. Phone calls to make, letters to open, binders to be filled.
But weeks like these, where the work is at its minimum, all these tasks -menial and mind numbing- take a small percentage of time.
Not that I'm complaining, but I like to keep busy.
I've finally learned to make these hours work for me. I scribble my thoughts, be it on paper or computer with the hope that my boredom will be cured.
I dream of having that one beautiful job where I will be working tirelessly
and love every minute of what I do.
I dream of making a living out of my writing, perhaps save enough to have my own space.
Perhaps travel, experience life.
Yet here I am, broke, struggling- and not in the wonderfully artistic way
as I have yet to independently suffer the rites of artistic passage. Truly I wish I were living that artistic lifestyle, I'd be so much more fulfilled.
These long, boring hours, I write my simple verses, sketch my humble, stories, pencil my understated novel, with the hopes of something greater. Wishing of a little more, not much, but something more.
Time, ah time,
you fiendish thing you.
LT
6-9-09[/i]
Oh sure, there is work to be done. Paper in need of copying, filing. Data to be entered, consolidated, analyzed. Phone calls to make, letters to open, binders to be filled.
But weeks like these, where the work is at its minimum, all these tasks -menial and mind numbing- take a small percentage of time.
Not that I'm complaining, but I like to keep busy.
I've finally learned to make these hours work for me. I scribble my thoughts, be it on paper or computer with the hope that my boredom will be cured.
I dream of having that one beautiful job where I will be working tirelessly
and love every minute of what I do.
I dream of making a living out of my writing, perhaps save enough to have my own space.
Perhaps travel, experience life.
Yet here I am, broke, struggling- and not in the wonderfully artistic way
as I have yet to independently suffer the rites of artistic passage. Truly I wish I were living that artistic lifestyle, I'd be so much more fulfilled.
These long, boring hours, I write my simple verses, sketch my humble, stories, pencil my understated novel, with the hopes of something greater. Wishing of a little more, not much, but something more.
Time, ah time,
you fiendish thing you.
LT
6-9-09[/i]