today i just couldn't deal. i had originally considered working in the office but was so blah that i just undocked and packed it up. today i didn't even sit at a desk. what did i do during work hours? i sat on my bed and stared at lists. i did a bunch of thinking. i outlined, drew charts in my notebook. answered some emails.

i IMd. i cooked rice. i visited the little boy. i cooked lunch and ate it while the little guy ate his lunch. i bundled him up and ergo'd him to the grocery store when he wouldn't take a nap. and you know what? he napped. i gave my mom a nice little almost-2-hours of quiet. i looked for jobs, i read FB and gossip sites. i stopped to play some games on my phone. i watched n's latest animated cartoon.

my job is getting to the point where i am not outputting a lot of tangible evidence. legitimately so, because i am no longer hands-on. and it's a struggle to prove productivity to myself, let alone to my colleagues. it's hard. i am sloughing along but it feels awful, like a big joke, and my boss knows i have time on my hands.

i need to recognize more fully that the lack of tangibility is OK. but, i also need to forge more strategic campaigns if i want to thrive here. and you know, of course i don't care enough to thrive here, so it's this vicious little circle. i don't care, but i want to seem like i care enough, but i am certainly not up for a big challenge to get me promoted because i don't care. i aim to do well with my team and with my expected duties, but forget it if i have to work extra hours at this job i don't care about. ugh.

stuck

i navigate felt wall dividers, bland carpet and single-cup coffee machines seeking sanity. give me life, home for 8 hours a day! between emails i crave conversation, a few IMs about nothing, a huddle room haven where reality tv is on the agenda. let me veg my brains out. i will milk the system, i must. you don't pay me enough to give up my identity. i get my work done and i now struggle but hopefully still succeed at doing a great job. treading water, everyday i attempt a profit of productivity.

it's a plague in this city, an epidemic. i want to reject it, but it pays me too much to just leave. and so i dance. i spin, and twirl, and pirouette to the tune of this corporate blah, an anthem for doldrums, a monotonous anti-cacophony, ennui. i speak the language and forge the political campaigns. i build silly little class projects.

my salary allows me to pay for the $11 salads i consume, and the lost metrocards i replace all too often, and the takeout we order because i'm too tired to cook or too busy working to buy groceries. i get to see my little boy for a couple hours a day, because mommy is making the big bucks, taking melancholy trains home with frowning, pouting people.

admittedly i have a knack for finding little joys during these hours. it seems taboo but i do. if i'm going to reside in this jail camp, i am going to do the bare minimum, try not to look it, steal moments for myself, remember what camaraderie is about. and collect the big paycheck to fund our rent that has thus far surpassed the cost of my childhood home. the cultural benefits of this city are now sort of occasional, infrequent. i get by on peripheral doses.

and sadly, forget how to stay true to my core habits. the wellness i cultivated out west. the great mental clarity i had in my 20s. i long to rejoice, not recoil. to live now, and always now, and not just for those moments i can piece together.