let the sun shine in

Lately, many of my days do not pass without at least several manic attacks..."must plan trip to Istanbul in November" which was somehow spawned from "must buy a thousand new scarves on the internet" or the ever ubiquitous "must have new job now" or "must live in new apartment asap". Over half of these desires consist of activities I have no control over for the time being (or more accurately no budget). However, the most frequent attack is not quite as manic and stalks about slowly like rolling thunder. "Must be motivated to get shit done" which is by far the hardest state to get in, b/c as much as I love to be accomplished, I hate getting started. It probably signifies what some would deem selfish or immature, but as far as jobs aka careers go, I have a vague idea of where I would like to go, but only if I am allowed to take as many vacations as I want in the midst of pursuing said goals. At some point today, Nick and I will purchase our tickets to Berlin after growling over the very specifics of our schedules. At least that will get done. But like I said, vacations fall into heavy desire...starting a potential job's third round design project, not so much.

Note: I am not a storyteller

Occasionally, on days like today, my mind flashes back to a particular incident that occurred when I was 16 and working my first real job at a bagel/sandwich shop.  I started every day at 6 am (a fact I somehow completely forgot until I went home for the holidays this past year) preparing coffee, setting out assorted cream cheese and stocking each basket to the brim with bagels just before people would start petering in about 15 minutes later. The day usually lasted through the lunch and then I was cut loose to enjoy the rest of the day. I was definitely the youngest one there, turning up my nose at the tips-bought HEB gift cards they bought to even out the extra money, trying coffee for the first time,  falling confusingly into some state of love/admiration with a twenty-year old kid named Ted and laughing hysterically at our co-worker Mike, a mid-twenty-something with a kid living the quintessential Austin life (which any current or former Austinite can attest such a thing exists; I spent most of my holiday "break" sarcastically denouncing New York b/c I was simply "too Austin" to make it there) who managed to endlessly entertain at any given moment. 

On one particular day, when the rush got particularly heinous and, as usual,  people lined up back to the entrance with order slips piling up, Mike, having missed out on some small, finicky request, took a nearly finished sandwich in a vice-like grip with knuckles bared and tore it to mushy bits with his bare hands while growling with a guttural roar of palpable rage . Which at the time felt so wrong and so off that I couldn't capably get my head around it.

However, image grilled in mind foreverrr, I spend many days walking out the office door towards some small bit of sanctuary, eyes squeezed shut and head thrust skyward, speaking "IHATETHISJOB" or exhaling as if my reason for living is meant to escape along with it. And I understand, I completely understand, wishing that my hands would reach forward, and with a Greek god-like strength rip the keyboard in front of me into sharp shards of broken plastic.

shrouded by floppy hat brims

I wonder sometimes if dreams really do echo all that is trapped within the connections between neurons, if they speak to some underlying Freudian subconscious that I have yet to realize within the everyday existence. Last night I read myself to sleep at some obscenely early hour and slept twelve hours (give or take) with certain themes reoccurring that I can slightly remember as they only became clear when my eyes fluttered open for the briefest of times. A mash-up of all the thoughts that I tend to push aside in hopes that I will either come to terms with them or stop wasting my time dwelling fantastically in the negative aspects of my current life. I don't know when I started meandering in the "dark side", gazing wistfully at a youth I claim I never lived fully or metaphorically. Which sounds odd, I know, but sometimes all I desire are the muted colors and hushed memories of growing up...no Holden Caulfield, no Pre-Teen Sensations, but somewhere closer to a movie watched solely for the cinematography. Fleeting and rich, soft and intimate, rather than say, angsty, pent-up sexuality and moaning bitchfests. Haha. I almost feel that I am forcing myself to relive the angst, longing for the people whose faces burn into me and whose bodies I wish to wrap my arms around and hold until everything stops spinning and finally makes sense. It's quiet and I'm the first one up. I miss a lot and I'm only 23. What the hell does that mean?