If I care so much about work, why haven’t I gotten anywhere with it - I wonder about this at 3:48am, unable to sleep because work thoughts are keeping me awake... MAYBE I SHOULD BE ASKING: If I care so little about work, why am I awake at 3:48am thinking about work... I'm not supposed to be caring about work. What the ?
...with these questions, these run-on sentences which start out as questions but just end up being clueless, aimless statements - these twitching chops of paragraphs (currently of the work variety but not always so)...these clumps of words, they do tend to run on, and then I think: Hey, maybe this is some kind of poem, maybe I'm being visited...but it’s not a poem. It's the broken thoughts of an incoherent idiot (there is a difference) (am I getting less and less coherent, less and less comprehensible - so that one day I'll wake up and start yackin, and nobody will know what the hell I'm talkin about (because I won't be talkin about anything, I'll just be saying words that don't go together (and then a Human Resources Representative will take me by the hand to a little room where he or she will show me a series of pictures depicting...me, turning in my card key and walking out to my car and driving away and not coming back as coworkers wave to me through the window with relieved smiles on the faces)))
(For now, work is the reality. For some reason they let me continue to go there and drink their coffee, and they give me money every two weeks too. (I have this image of myself: image of an idiot who smiles too much - and at the wrong time...and who also scowls too much - and at the wrong time...and who knocks things over and screws things up...image of an idiot getting by just barely))
I have another image of myself. Image of completely independent, uninfluenced...guy...tough guy...loner (but in a cool way) thinker reader observer outsider (dare I say it? writer) spits at work, like outside - spits, COULD NOT CARE LESS, don't give a sheeyit, does just enough to get by but basically...whatever...point made...
Work is the reality. Work is where I have to go every day. Even if I try to convince myself that I’m way up above it - that I only go to work for the paycheck, that I don’t really care what happens there as long as I get that paycheck...well...obviously I do care - my brain won’t let me off work that easily. It’s a weird duality: I really do not want to care about work. But I do care - I care on an instinctive level, I guess. Work problems bother me long after I’ve left work. I feel like I should have the work thing licked - all the work done when I leave - so that I can go home without any guilt or cares at all and forget about it until the alarm goes off the next morning.
When I wake up at these weird hours because of work stuff buggin me, I might type long e-mails that I never intend to send. Typing all this mess out helps me sort it out. But then I just have these files sitting on my computer that will never be read - files that I can’t bring myself to delete.