When a job ends that I don’t like, self rises up, unobstructed and pulled loose from whatever algae-covered rocks or ocean floor deitrus held it in place.

The less I give to a job, the more it seems I do, even if I don’t want to, even and especially if all I give to it is my forced time. I break down and sink, overwhelmed at the edges, the water pulling down and away.

I live, blind like a mole rat, like a feeler-creature attached to a rock, with a wide, great mouth pointing up to the sky. Shaken by the current, by small eddies; worried by changes in pressure and taking big gulps of water when upset.

When it ends, I float up. I regain some semblance of a steering mechanism. I tie down the ropes which were allowed to float loose. The past two months haven’t exactly been terrible, but it always gets worse with time. And like a man lost on his own campaign, I begin to cringe and cry for my home-self. I stagger over dunes and plod thoughtlessly through dense underbrush, maps covered in a fugue-mind-fog.

I did the dishes, the long stacks (we’ve been eating out). I sat down and read, sat down and read, the last time that was was when? Two weeks ago, an article about the end of the world? I got a jump on writing, on working out what I want to say at home, not at work and confused. I didn’t sit down and try to distract. I didn’t turn on that Genesis machine. I didn’t fall asleep when my wife did, just because. I didn’t use the excuse: too tired. As I rode home I thought of all of the things I can, could, will and would do.

I look forward to doing my work, it’s almost done. I look forward to what I hate, because it’s almost done, and after I can go.

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