It’s been a while since my last post, which was a hazy love-letter to air travel. In retrospect, I look back upon it as being of somewhat dubious literary value, something more akin to what the British might call a quota-quickie; a literal means to an end. In this case, the post in question represented the dregs of a week’s worth of contributions for the Daily Post’s Prompt of the Day. I was supposed to earn some sort of accolade for participating in this punishment (don’t do it, kids!) but so far, I have yet to see my WordPress badge for the effort. Blogging is hard.

I’ve been out of work for a month now. My initial optimism for embarking on fresh academic pursuits has subsided more than a little as I begin to sail into the headwinds of bureaucratic closed doors and resulting depression. I’ve tried hard to combat this by being productive, to keep moving, whether the apparent solution was attending government seminars on employment, volunteering, or helping a friend host a website. I’ve done all of these things yet I still feel useless, adrift.

I met an old friend over the weekend, thinking that this might help me kick the blues. We talked about our lives, people we’d encountered together and now separately; how these people now maligned work I’d spent years caring about in my own way. I consumed too much wine, among other things, as I tried to pretend I didn’t care, that I was somehow more relaxed and more likeable now, as if to battle the perception of someone not even in the same room; self destructing a little. The day afterwards I dealt with the hangover: dry heaves, a rhythmic, pounding headache and a long walk through acres of guilt in my overindulgence.

However, hangovers pass and guilt can be turned to inspiration, like an exercise in emotional alchemy. As I write this, I bask under the ill blush of florescent lights at the local library. An hour ago I was blue, but now I feel mildly optimistic, as if I’m laying over between flights in my life’s journey. Where do I go from here, I wonder?

Since I started writing this literary purge, two new friends have added me on Facebook, a third wants to meet next week, and a fourth messages me now from Incheon, South Korea. Without those around me for whom I care, and who care for me, I might be completely lost; thankfully then, I’m not.

 

 

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