Cerebral discharge

I don’t know where I am today.  Adrift in a sea of thought?  Lost in apprehension’s deep shadows?  Something else entirely?

The answer escapes me.

In a short while I will sit down for a phone interview.  Perhaps I’m just nervous about that.  Yet I can’t help but think it’s something more.

Employment—no, that’s not right.  Income is foremost on my mind.  Having been out of work for almost a year and being stretched financially thin are problematic vexations.

But there is more to my discontent and dysphoria than that.  Much more.

Still, I think it’s all related.  Or at least somewhat.

Life in the big city no longer makes me happy.  Needing to rely on my technology expertise for work disgusts me, forces me back to what I loathe.  Struggling to stay on track with Dreamdarkers even as I focus the vast majority of my time on searching for work frustrates me because I’m so close yet so far from completing it.  Distress over what might happen, especially with regards to The Kids, smothers me and threatens to rob me of my every breath.  Trying to make writing a career when all I’ve done is personal writing and professional other is an obstacle course that seems built specifically to stop people from succeeding.

Oh, do listen to me prattle on ad nauseam about silly woes.  Like everyone else on the planet, I could write a humongous list of tiresome complaints without ever scratching the surface, and what an insult to those with real problems.

But they aren’t silly, are they?  At least not to me.

I feel like I’m standing under a crumbling dam just so I can hold my finger in a tiny leaking hole.

Ah, to be free from worry…

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