End of the day rant.
It's greasy hair that I rub with the ball of my hand and thread through with my fingers. Old dress shirts that remain wrinkled for weeks at a time, covered by sweaters, covering undershirts and singers. Dress pants I wash every few months, a belt that was handed down to me by my father, crap ties I've had since high school, and socks that leave black cotton stuck between my toes only to be rediscovered on my tatami mats. It's the facade that I put up to attempt to look like one of my colleagues when in all reality...It's become such a habit that I can't remember what I would be wearing otherwise, if I had a choice. Maybe I do have a choice. I have a limited set of choices and I adhere to them with the lowest possible amount of effort. Suits I stay away from. They're just not my style. If I was required to wear a suit though, would I end up wearing it on Friday nights out with my colleagues stumbling around narrow alleys and into smoke inhalation zones where alcohol and food are consumed at leisure. The idea of leisure seems to conflict with the idea of a suit. The idea of 40 hours dedicated to work in a week seems to dissolve the possibility of leisure. Nevertheless, I adapt. I close my eyes and try and wonder what's changing inside of me that makes it easy to take on these new demands. My sleep pattern has changed, my dress, my habits, my activities, my lifestyle. If I were left to my own habits and desires things would be different but that's neither there nor here. I'm an employee who is binded by hours, work, wages and responsibilities that intertwine themselves together so that I can no longer make out the difference between... Somehow I feel like my mind is being manipulated, I feel like I'm manipulating my mind. The two, I feel, are inseparable...
So, I beat on, against this current that's forcing me to give up my desires of taking sabbaticals to tropical countries on a whim. I never really did take these sabbaticals but it always seemed a possibility, now I reach for a planner, check the holidays where I have the liberty to do such a thing. My life is being planned by me, for me. I plan, they plan and it all becomes part of the cycle of planning, of plans. It seems the more I plan the more my plans crumble. My plans, their plans, they just don't mesh like I thought they would, should or could. It's mounting frustration resulting in discarded feelings into the self-emptying trash can of my mind where frustration and emotion passes like winter, spring, summer and fall. I feel like I'm capitulating, adapting, changing. But it was my choice. So I endure, I change, I adapt.
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