A friend — dear as she may be — spoke some horrifying words today:
“You are a workaholic.”
Oh, that was so evil and wrong and… and… sadly true, damn it.
As I have gotten older, I’ve become painfully aware of the passage of time — in particular, that of the individual day — and I am alarmed by the blur that has become my life: the days slide and merge into one another only to become a smeared mess of semi-recognizable images. Even this is not safe from decay as it, too, will erode further into meaningless color and shape. I might not be quite so disturbed by this were these days filled with adventures and satisfying pursuits; they consist, instead, of hour upon hour spent at the office. The work is rewarding if not frustrating, yet where it once simply dominated my days I now find it encroaching upon my nights. I don’t want to talk with anyone, I don’t want to deal with people — it’s more of a commitment than I’ve the energy to give — and I’m too mentally tired to do much more than eat dinner and pass out, my brain hijacked by thoughts of tomorrow’s to-do list.
I’ve a three-day weekend coming up. I’m getting in my car and heading north.
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