sweet and sour

I wasn’t made redundant last week. I get to keep my current role.

I do understand the privilege of having the job, ensuring food and shelter and clothing. Actually affording me more than the bare minimum. But I am sitting like a caged bear; rocking to and forth. Trapped and ‘pent up’ and feeling claustrophobic.

I am at once fascinated and amused at my response to the situation.  I am 40 years old. I know better than to take risk, to push boundaries, to be irresponsible with my life… I have slept in bus stops in winter, foregoing my own meals to feed my two cats. I have fought with, and railed against, the authorities to assert my rights to fair and deserved support… after the last time I was made redundant. I don’t want to go back there… and yet…

I felt alive then, living on wits, edgy and energetic, wired and motivated.

Today I feel life is oozing out of me. I am dozy with the fatness of nothing. I am sitting at a desk in an open plan office amidst an army of drones, working for a Company with many more drones spread across a vast global empire.

I have a job. I have a little disposable income. I have my health. But what? Where is my get up and go, my spirit?

I can feel a bubbling, a great cataclysmic uprising not far away.  And maybe I will hang up my high heels and put on my walking boots, because this array of someone else’s paperwork in front of me is not the view I want to look at every day. The deadlines generated by some nameless colleague across the Atlantic are not my timelines…

So today I have a job – made up of the minutiae of daily tasks.

Tomorrow, I may just make time to listen to the voice within and see if it knows where I may be heading. I will have my walking boots. Just in case.

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