I’ve spent the last few debating whether or not to write about the whole god forsaken toxic mess. Because, you know, ultimately it really is meaningless. Except that it’s not. Stability and all. I’d wanted to go another direction entirely, pondering first the much talked about, never to materialize red wave; the new owner of Twitter as I sat back watching it all unfold, at first amused and then profoundly disturbed by the ease which the richest men in the world seem to relish burning everything down.
I hadn’t wanted ever to go back, declared my retirement, and left my work Docs in the alley next door, touched by the spirit of the great resignation, something better out there, something meaningful. Maybe even a crazy dream, which I won’t declare here. I don’t need to learn that lesson twice.
But then the pandemic wore down and so did my savings. So I did the responsible thing and went back to waiting tables, stacking plates, slinging drinks, table manners *not mine* degrading as the months sailed by, arriving dutifully on time every day even though it’s really not a stretch to say the place really did kill me inside, sensitve boi that I am.
It’s hard finding the thing, believing in that crazy dream, and not being afraid of it. Until, like, life. So here I sit, writing this, negotiating that tension between the floor falling out from under my feet and. Freedom. A chance to find that something. Or maybe even the dream. The scary part not knowing where or how to land just yet. So, for now, I’ll just fly.