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Sep. 1st, 2003 07:54 pmAfter talking with a friend or two of late, I've come to the realization that I'm living life Bukowski style, and that right now, I'm stuck in my version of Post Office. I mean, Buk went into that as a temporary thing, and ended up stuck working for the US Postal Service on and off for a freaking decade.
I do not want this to happen to me. Sure, I've got some great stories. I've got stuff from clublife, from office hell, and from general stupidity of living. But damn, I just don't want to be living this way in another ten years. I think that it will kill me if I keep it up. Spiritually, emotionally, and damn right physically. I mean, I'm not Jack, The World's Oldest Club Kid. I can't do this when I'm 80something, let alone late thirtysomething.
Must keep looking for new job, new life, new love, new joy, joy, joy, joy, joy, joy.
See, somewhere in all of this, there is something resembling logic, and light, and glimmers of hope, and heart-freedom. I want to live again, and smile, and run through it all like a carefree stag, bounding through life racing towards wherever. I need this. Somewhere I need this.
I am no tree, no oak. I am not steadfast, bound by limitless digits of roots. Nothing is holding me down, save for my own inertia. Must get rolling, roving, and moving.
Must keep moving.
Must sing. Must sing the song of life. I just need to figure out the tune. Because it's not f sharp, e flat, or g natural. It's in the tune of something I've not heard in a long long time. And though it's a good tune, and catchy, it's far too easy to forget the words.
I do not want this to happen to me. Sure, I've got some great stories. I've got stuff from clublife, from office hell, and from general stupidity of living. But damn, I just don't want to be living this way in another ten years. I think that it will kill me if I keep it up. Spiritually, emotionally, and damn right physically. I mean, I'm not Jack, The World's Oldest Club Kid. I can't do this when I'm 80something, let alone late thirtysomething.
Must keep looking for new job, new life, new love, new joy, joy, joy, joy, joy, joy.
See, somewhere in all of this, there is something resembling logic, and light, and glimmers of hope, and heart-freedom. I want to live again, and smile, and run through it all like a carefree stag, bounding through life racing towards wherever. I need this. Somewhere I need this.
I am no tree, no oak. I am not steadfast, bound by limitless digits of roots. Nothing is holding me down, save for my own inertia. Must get rolling, roving, and moving.
Must keep moving.
Must sing. Must sing the song of life. I just need to figure out the tune. Because it's not f sharp, e flat, or g natural. It's in the tune of something I've not heard in a long long time. And though it's a good tune, and catchy, it's far too easy to forget the words.
