I know this isn’t a good place for me, and I think once again about leaving. I think of breaking a contract and starting somewhere else. It’s a lack of options I suppose that keeps me here, and the feeling that in some way, I might be on track to a life that is more satisfying and fulfilling, just beyond the horizon.
Thoughts of my own mortality press upon me more regularly, more often than in the past. I feel my age. My face becomes weathered and world-weary, my body thickens out, and boyish charm gives way to a certain despondency – but perhaps it’s not all that bad.
I do think of leaving this place, of taking up a new profession, or simply devoting myself to writing – to living a little more free and if I could say it, authentically. I know this isn’t the place for me and I see my face passing, but most miraculously and puzzling of all, I seem to do very little to change the trajectory that I’m on.
I think it’s amazing sometimes that I could give myself over to something I don’t believe in, when other opportunities – perhaps a little more uncertain or unstable – are certainly available. Thoughts of an irrevocable move, or an irredeemable mistake.
I imagine that I fear loneliness and a lack of meaning or purpose.
I know I shouldn’t be here, but it’s so easy to be here… to carry on, day in and day out. To set oneself on fixed rails… within a system…