I’m supposed to hand in the final version of my paper for my English Honors seminar tomorrow. Actually, I should probably be working on it now and I certainly will return to it after updating this baby.

I had dinner the other evening with a friend who’s specific future occupation I can’t predict but what I do know is that he is an extremely witty and humble person and a very unique critic. Like I said, I’m taking next year “off” from school. It’s supposed to be a year off to read, to do all sorts of odd jobs, to paint… a mental health year(although I really need it to be a physical health year, too… I’ve resolved to stop smoking and stop eating chocolate croissants and taking advantage of the free coffee at my job…). So I told my friend this. He is a year older than me and graduated one year before so when I met him, he was in the midst of his own version of a mental health year. He’s applied to graduate schools and, in this meantime, is working and living in New York.

So conversation turned to work. I don’t mind my job. I respect the company and my workers are pretty great. Even the tiredness I have when I get out is kind of nice. I sleep more regularly now. What’s hard, maybe, is doing one sort of work when we’re so conscious that we intend to do entirely different things. We commiserated about the fake enthusiasm and belief we’re supposed to have in these things we are doing just to get by. It’s a kind of exhaustion that’s hard to recover from.

I’m optimistic, though. I concluded that, if this is how we feel doing other sorts of work then it can be taken as affirmation, inspiration, and motivation for writing and creating.