May. 3rd, 2010

openscarf: (meditate in forest)

 The box I lived in for almost a year has fallen to ashes and the winds have taken them away. No longer trapped by the trial ahead or the identifying taint of the assault, I look ahead, but there’s nothing there. It’s like I took my blinders off. Or, that the cocoon I lived in for a year has been shed and I’m free to fly.

 Well, that’s just scary talk. It’s as if I’m internally blinking at this thing called light that I couldn’t see for so long.

It was fine and dandy to pretend I was a writer, to make new contacts and know people were reading my stuff. But magically, I pretended and then it became so. 

It’s fantastical to be out of the nine-to-five world, out of nine-to-five clothes; no longer required to be somewhere for many hours a day. It’s a sweet jelly doughnut fantasy.

Now  I’m looking for simple temp jobs, or jobs I actually want, that have a strong emphasis on writing, social change and are possibly democratically run- with some support from a new contact or two. I’ve amped up the search; I figure the temp agencies will come through eventually, so I’m registering and calling in regularly to get in their heads. And applying to dream jobs.

I believe my box had a top and a bottom, but the sides were open, and that’s how I didn’t get stuck. I pretty much was only capable of looking just a day or two ahead-if that-and filled each day with a lot of output. Now I get paid for writing articles-- a few bucks is a few bucks. I’m a professional! Damn!

My skin no longer gets prickly,(or hasn't in a while anyway) as if I’m in a cloud of flying slender needles when anxiety begins whispering. Maybe the hot flashes canceled out that symptom. Or maybe my exhausted mind finally exhaled, like a fury and in a white hot moment the top and bottom of my box, ignited and disintegrated.

I actually am scared about (1) not finding work, or (2) finding work, and (3) running out of money. But at the same time, I feel it will all work out. For now, I’m merely tipping my hat at the fear.

I sit here at my desk, almost every day, with lots of ideas to write about for my blogs, and assignments for the news site. I’m writing all the time, as if I’m making my living here at my desk, I like to pretend I am, but, come on.

 Crazy. I have no idea what is going on. I wouldn't say I'm energetic. I have a lot of feelings and images in my head and I'm just going with them.


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