Cold and warm at the same time. Almost no temperature. Room temperature. Feeling out the day in room temperature.

Feeling out where the writing will go in room temperature.

I’m about to have a rather heavy and intense week. A lot of writing. A lot more than usual. A lot of staring out windows. A lot of finding my way and waying my find, and right now it’s just about getting to the bottom of the writing and finding where the text lies. Confronting text and getting to the end of it all. Finding what lies ahead. A heading lies, what finds. And so on and so forth.

There’s a certain vapidity and subsequent emptiness I’m finding in the cycle of working and getting work done, and maybe I’m just feeling my age, or something. Maybe I’m yearning to break out of a cycle. It’s coming soon though, so I don’t know what I could be yearning for. I do know, however, that I will keep going after all is said and done. It’s all I have; the power to keep going, and it’s all I can embrace at the end of the day. Well, there are other things that I can embrace, but you know. Moody and pensive and reflective and all that.

The weather has not turned out as predicted, and that may be a good thing. Need it to hold for a few days, but right now I’m enjoying it. I’m enjoying seeing the clouds drift on over from the top of a building and pass through blinds that aren’t solid. These blinds make things slightly fuzzy, and that I find interesting. It’s still the same world out there, but some of the detail is lost. Some of it muffled and so it gains this slightly vague quality. Like watching old film footage that, whilst preserved as well as it can be, has undeniably aged. Is less sharp than it could be. It’s like that, but also, not quite. I don’t know how to put it into words, what it’s like exactly, but that’s a pretty decent approximation for a lazy attempt, I feel.

I’ve been asked if I’m fine for quiet periods, and I said I was, and I am. I have a lot of things I can do right now, and I’ll still have a lot of things I can do later. At least, if there is an expectation for me to entertain myself, I know that this is something that I can do. I know that I can take solace in my needing to entertain myself, and that’s a good thing. Maybe a bad thing, too, but it’s a good thing. Plenty of writing, not enough time, but there never is enough time.

And so the day continues on and the afternoon draws long. I’m just sitting here, trying to fill a quiet time. Trying to fill a silence and finding where the meaning lies. This silence is not one to embrace. It’s not a way of doing things. It’s time that’s quiet, and it draws itself out. It spreads and fills, and it increases my yearning to break out of a cycle. Or rather, it increases me wondering if this is what I want to be doing. If this is where I want to be.

I do want to be where I am. I do want to be doing what I want to be doing. I don’t know if I want to be here, specifically, though. I miss the brief work I’ve done in the arts, and it was certainly brief. Sure, I still do gig photography, but that’s a different form of work. That’s a different exploration, and if I could get paid to do that I’d be over the moon, but it’s not happening and so I just keep going. I keep powering on and ploughing on through, and I work at a place I want to work and I feel I am contributing. It’s just not fulfilling work, I guess. On one hand I’m fine with that; if I’m doing the things I want to do, I don’t mind. On the other, I’m feeling myself wanting to look elsewhere. Wanting to go elsewhere.

I guess I’m just dissatisfied with everything. Or not.

The days tick away, I’ve got some work but maybe not enough, and it keeps on going. But if I had more I’d probably be far to stressed to do much of anything. Then I’d be even more annoyed. Realistically, I think I might just be restless. Tired of sitting in one spot for long, you know, those sorts of things. The work is fine, but it’s not nourishing and little changes. It keeps going, I keep pushing forward, I feel myself desiring productivity and there’s not enough to be productive with, but that’s okay.

It is good that I can do just about what I want whilst it’s quiet. It is good that I can capitalise on this. I’m trying to take advantage of this as best I can. I just don’t know how long I can stick it out. But I try. There are people who have it far worse than I do, and I try to keep that in mind. This is not a bad spot to be in. In a way it feels like a reward for sticking out call centre work for as long as I did. As though the universe has said I’ve suffered enough. That’s okay. That’s fine. Brilliant, even. Great.

So what to say from here? I’m staring out a window, looking at a sanded back, smoothed outside area. I can see shadows and I can see clouds, and everything moves slowly and quickly, and little changes. It all keeps going. This is fine. This is okay. I just need to keep getting through the days the best that I can. Soon it’ll be time to head on home, and the days will continue onward. Everything will keep on going.

The time it took to write one thousand words: 15:07:25

A decent enough speed, but a really boring bit of writing. I’m glad it touches on boredom and dissatisfaction with work, though I probably could’ve said the same with fewer words.

Written at work.