It's been in returning to the work hard, play hard of the capital and once again trying to find my nest among it, that I remember the difficulties of finding work that fits like a role rather than the soul-less submission of my time for money.
It feels a futile journey; as we wish for an existence of definition. We cut away the fat that makes us different, trying to label the puzzle pieces of ourselves in a desperation to fit in. Our wants and needs are so many things. We are a constant state of flux, just as we are constantly evolving into something we do not know - let alone can define.
It's the human condition of our hyper active frontal lobe that not only defines us but separates, discriminates and pigeon holes. A perfectionist nature that stops us from riding a wave and listening to the whims of our hearts that ALWAYS pull us in the right direction. Meandering curiosity in our day to day between milestones are rather wasteful hours spent worrying, calculating, re calibrating, because we forgot to trust in our hearts to find the right way.
Within these days of a wavering trust in my own heart, days that make me anxious, itchy, I'm sat in the purgatory of the corner caf and steep in mediocrity. I watch the commuters on the other side, fulfilling the definitions they've chosen to file themselves under. How many times I did that and spent those commuting hours wanting for the freedom of a blank slate, of undefinition, of irresponsibility? Is it the endlessness of opportunities or the nothingness of a cage I hate? Is it the nothingness of opportunities ungrasped or the endlessness of being cage I know I can break?
It's in gratitude that I'm a bird in a cage with an open door. It's in contentment I'm winged yet have no wish to fly.