Friday, August 26, 2005

Working for a living... cramping my style -- my writing style. There is none.

Life moves by so quickly that a day turns into a week and a week turns into nearly a month. It is if time has become a speeding bullet train flashing over the landscape and glimpses are the only touch with reality and friends and life. And all for the sake of earning a living.

I wonder sometimes if it is all worth it? The quest for money to pay rent and buy food and the necessities of life (movies, essential oils, more movies, and trips back to the silence and peace of the past, as well as ham radio swap meets and greets) takes up more and more of my time as I chase the elusive operative report from the roiling tank of frenzied medical transcriptionists feeding like piranha on a dwindling supply of thrashing kittens. I've been told the company is picking up more hospitals in the system, but evidently that hasn't happened yet and I'm tired of waiting, tired of working all hours of the day and night. Yet that is now my life and my fate.

I do venture out as often as possible to shop for food and breathe deeply of the fresh air, but it's not enough. I long for those long meandering days when writing what I wanted when I wanted was all that lay before me. I miss the slow turn of the sun as it rose, climbed and fell behind the trees, painting the world in crimson, lavender and gold, flashing like living fire between the dark slate grey clouds full of rain and snow. It isn't that I don't appreciate my life now or see the beauty of blooded mountains outside my window each morning and night or hear the tick, tick ticking of a cricket in the moonlight or the raucous call of crows in the trees, but that I have only moments to soak them up like water in the desert before I am forced back into the fray.

Still, despite it all, life is good and it is full of happiness, friends and love. After all, it could be better -- but it could also be a whole lot worse. Busy isn't so bad.

Is it?

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