Time flies fast and relentless.
I realised it by looking at the statistics of this site and seeing how little I wrote in the last few months.
I realise it now, thinking it's already Tuesday, and this week, like the previous one, is just flying away.
It seems like a full life, but I cannot accept and cannot perceive any positive vibrations from this optimistic view of the working week.
Time flies fast, and unfortunately it’s wasted in boring, flat days.
It doesn’t come as a surprise that my “literary silence” coincides with the increase of duties in my work: after the first months of settling and training, assignments have increased, as well as commitments, meetings ... stress.
I like my job, and I bless the fact that I've found it because I know now what it's like to be home to look for a job, send thousands of letters and not to get answers, and especially fight with the ghosts of less and less money to deal with.
But then I had something more: I had my time, for myself and to write and I filled my days with different and greater satisfactions.
Now I find myself again on this side of the barricade, in that swirl of routine in which we are all irreparably end: work steals 40% or perhaps more of the day; then go shopping, clean up, iron, wash, maybe even find some time for the gym or any training; then eat, let the TV steal any time left and we are ready to put the day to sleep.
It looks like a busy life, and maybe it is; but despite I don’t complain too much about my life, there is always that malicious voice inside me which whisper it should be something more ... (for example, some more time to do what I like, like writing)
I find myself again as the character of this story ... and yet I am calm and serene.
Perhaps, approaching my 40's, I still have my inner struggles, my questions about the uselessness of this life someone else has chosen for us ... but somehow I've learned how to avoid them.