Somehow, after all’s said and done, I’ll remember these days.
I’ll look back on my early thirties, and in between flashes of momentary bliss and specks of madness, there’ll be this endless to and fro along slippery rails, as the sun comes up and then as it goes down, brown roofs and patches of green flickering in and out of view, Spotify in my ear and slippery fears gnawing at the back of my brain like piranhas.
I guess I was busy, I’ll think.
And you know, I am.
I’m in a place now at work where, if it doesn’t kill me first, I can change things. On a very small scale, of course. But even so, the possibility of change, of mattering, even just a little bit and to a handful of people who in turn only matter to you, well, turns out it’s quite addictive. Life cosuming, never ending, harder than hard.
I’m trying. I really am.
In many ways, it’s changing me for the better. And in some ways, it’s turning me into a monster.
There are many opportunities these days. To get carried away, to take it personally, to be misunderstood.
But I try.