It’s so easy for me to fall into the glory of ennui. Wander
the streets handing out resumes everywhere I don’t want to work, so tired in
the rain, wet shoes soaked through soggy socks but free. The more days and
weeks that pass the harder it is to even think of giving up this freedom. I
don’t need a lot to eat every day, I don’t need a fancy, or even just nice
place to live. I’m ok with mice, with an empty fridge, a sleeping bag on the
floor and an old radio. I don’t know who is who and what is what and what
people are in mass relation about… I’m just hungry and observant. All that
needs to be known is all around me.
The people I pass on the street are so distracted and I am
so distracted by them but in a grander, wider way. I watch them slowly and sometimes even
joyfully, or at least contentedly. My forays
into the realm of employment search usually lead me to the outer stretches of
cities and towns, the grey places that in my memory always conjure up dark
bloated skies and drizzle. Downpours are too beautiful for these places,
graveyards of the minds and souls of living men and women. My walk is a cross
between determination and a shuffle, my shoulders slump whenever I am feeling
inadequate, or too proud, but I’m pretty good at faking it enough to impress a
potential employer that at least I’m willing to fake it enough to get a job in
a place like this, that, there.
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