Manuka, Honey.

I think I'm going to feel it, hard, when I'm not working fewer days in the week than staying home. It's taken me four days to forget how to do my job and reaffirm how much I don't want to be there. To the point that I wonder why these people keep coming up to my little glass screen and asking me for things. This morning was haaaaaaa-a-a-ard, in a bewildering sort of way. I was slow, yes. Today, I was the definition of the bare minimum. And I'll only get through tomorrow knowing that I'll be off again for five days afterwards... the strange thing is, that when we were back up north I couldn't be happy about it. I didn't want to be back at work, but when you only have to choose your outfit two days a week and it's already been determined what you'll do for five, suddenly having lots of time to fill becomes... a bit frightening, really. It reminded me of being a student, with the fake freedom of all that time, but the reality of the work hanging over your head like a black leather bound cloud. Totally kills off any inspiration to do anything worthwhile. Hence three years wasted on drivel I wouldn't show to my rabbit. (He'd probably eat it out of pity, so I might relent and allow him access.) But at least with days of unadulterated time on your hands and NO work to do, there's no pressure... but then without the pressure, there's no frantic scribbling at half past midnight. And without the scribbling, there is no meaning... I used to wonder why I bothered writing. I didn't really believe it kept me sane. It doesn't. But it gives you a sense of getting closer to the gem in the middle of a dense block. A little cloud sweeping for your brain. And the harder it is to start with, the more important it is. Which is why, although I'm aware that I'm creating a fairly meagre post right this minute, I'm keeping on with it. (Just thought I'd let you know, there is something to it, even if it is just stopping me from talking to myself and grinding my teeth all the way home.) It might even help me make sense of the limbo between the two major days in December. That was how the whole writing lark started, after all, with the gift of a notebook and some serious time stretches... it would be appropriate.

Tomorrow will be a wasted day, but there will be things in it worth getting up for. And in a few days, who knows... I might hear from someone about a job, and I might have a little more time to make myself write in the afternoons. But hush, someone might think I'm being presumptious. Ah, fuck it. What can we be, if not quietly optimistic?