The muted hush of melancholy settles upon me as I face — with my back to a week off full of squandered potential — the work week ahead. Back into it. From obligation, to obligation, back into obligation. That’s what I have come to. Obligations. Obliged to do this-and-that, not enticed with reward, but enlisted by duty, automatically walking through and doing, because that’s what I’m supposed to be doing. Obligations.
Hoped to have an easy week off; nothing of it was easy but my resignation to my fate. Spent a lot of money to get my car fixed: suspension and tires. That really, really hurt me. Obligation. Drove home in the middle of the week off to visit family for the holiday. Obligation. Family time was good, but hard schedule, hard driving, hard couch. Obligation. Final days spent getting my head back together, dreading work tomorrow. Obligation.
Desire would be good. Motivation. Connection. Calling out. These are other purposes of life. I miss them. Instead, it’s the dry feeling of corn meal in my mouth, the bleary eyed, gray face of obligation. The red flash of the alarm comes in the morning. Will be a week of hell catching up at work, I just know it.