Resistance is futile.
current location: another windowless cave
current mood: contemplative
With each sneeze my cranium grew thicker and I rolled my head around the desk until I could no longer bear the florescent lighting and trudged out into the unseasonably warm sun. Sitting on a bench in a speck of a park I took off my sweater and transfixed on a majestically hued tree shimmering in the breeze, showering the sidewalk in its vibrant jetsam.
The fingers of my mind poked around, pressing there and here in their usual diagnostic search for the cause of its familiar ennui. It’s been remarkably easy to settle into this new job where hardly anything is asked of me. My day-to-day is so untroubled, I wonder why the overriding adjective recurring now as a dog sniffs his way across the lawn is “transitional.” Why would I feel I’m in a transitional phase if I’ve already proven myself incapable of affecting life changes? Probably because I’m still a goodly distance away from accepting my current station so a more apt picture would be that I am the hard shell bug rolled onto her back and waving her legs in the air except that I don’t feel that I’m waving very vigorously. I think I’ll have a nap and maybe try to roll over again next year. My half-hearted, can-do, American ambition is no match for my expert-level, good Buddhist acceptance. Often it seems a sin to want for more than one has but that flicker of aspiration is always just quietly pestilent enough to remain at lifelong odds with my contentment dharma. Balls.