This month work has been a mixed bag. On the one hand, I have had month-long contracts lately, so I have no deadlines, can work at any hour of the day, take two weeks off and do 12 hour days the other two. It is all up to me and I’ve enjoyed the liberty.
On the other hand, the current assignment is so painfully dull I’ve likened it to scrubbing the same spot on the floor for 3 hours. Imagine that! Could anyone scrub the same spot meticulously for 3 hours without abandoning it in hopeless boredom? I manage it for 10 minutes until my mind wanders elsewhere or I open some other website, watch a film or indulge in my one filthy habit of reading sub-par content. This post here is just another result of that mind-numbing scrubbing I couldn’t take any more.
I don’t have ADHD. This translation would put anyone’s attention span to the test.
To pass the time, I took this social intelligence test, where you are supposed to tell by a person’s eyes what mood they are in. And my score was so pathetic I will go hide under the blanket and reflect on my delusions. Test can be done on this link.
People this bad at reading others shouldn’t be wanting to be psychologists. I got 26.
Long absence due to mental exhaustion from stressful life events. But hopefully things are looking up now.
And then there’s the writer’s block. A number of ideas, but not the words to put them down with.
Spring is almost here and my dream of a house has not come true. The real estate market isn’t playing ball this year. And god knows if I’ll even qualify for a loan with my part-time pay in the future. Optimistic side of me thinks: maybe there is a purpose in that delay. Maybe some other wonderful thing is about to happen for which I need my savings more. But, this isn’t a fairy tale. This is my life. Nothing THAT wonderful ever happens.
At any rate, I feel trapped. Greeting spring in a city flat has always been a painful experience. No less this year. It is like being a bird whose cage has been placed on the terrace. Hearing others rejoice around you, while you may smell and feel, but not fly with them.
Or the flight is such effort that it spoils everything. I could rent a house for spring, but it is not the same. I could walk outside and admire other gardens and public parks, but it is not the same. I can’t just lie down under a lilac tree and expect to get away with it. Passers-by would interfere, thinking I was drunk or had an accident. So much for romance.
Point is, as much as I love spring, its arrival is always painful. More painful each year that I cannot express my love for it in the manner that my heart most wishes.