I'll tell you about me because I am here and you are distant
There isn't so much wrong with this point in my life that it won't be a time I could never be nostalgic about, and wish to return to. But there is enough wrong with it that it has led me to think towards a year prior, when things were different. Society was being damaged with the effects of a devastating global pandemic, but according to a sentimental portrayal in a message I just sent, it was “the best year of my life”. I feel like my head, my heart and the clock have damaged each other with the effects of their desires, but according to an unsentimental portrayal in an answer I'll give tomorrow “my weekend was good, thanks”. Everything can and will change just as fast as it does slow.
The 22nd of September was the day I found myself typing something quite similar to the below. It wasn't exactly a surprising thing to have to write, and nor was it particularly notable. But I think if every not notable note was not noted, then nothing noted would be worth reading.
Today, Simon has been receiving unexpected errors
when attempting to create associations between records.
Unfortunately, whilst troubleshooting the errors early this afternoon, the import limit was hit. This means he'll have to wait until tomorrow to continue.
As such, I've drafted in our developer, Jamie, to explore an alternative method that could bypass the import limit.
We apologise for the frustrating delay, but I have confidence that a solution from either of the two prongs of attack will come through soon.
The Covid 19 virus was feared because it sometimes ravaged those with conditions that were not underlying. The government made new rules so common folk could be arrested for dining out or fingering from a social indistance. Employees were abandoned through methods like furlough and there was an increase in those who pretended to work from home. Many of the Virus Survivors, the Covid Generation, went on to occasionally mention it for years to come.
I remember people used to refer to me as “the zoom host” just because I was fast. Back then the internet was just a fancy fax machine, one with a few extra sockets, all of which crammed dangerously to the brim with wires. Me and my pals didn't care for any calls: not re, not courtesy nor video. As for bad connection, well, that was something only adults could have; at the time we had yet to grow up.
I awoke this morning wanting to return to sleep, but didn't for an hour or few. I'm not sure what I ended up having would call itself a nap or the continuation of night, but I am sure that shortly after my second awakening I entered my truck in order to drive it. I don’t like guzzling the earth's resources, but it's preferable to wasting the carpet staring at the extravagantly thick day. Hands on the wheel stopped at least three cigarettes from being smoked by my mouth.
I thoroughly enjoyed the trucking because I ate a so-called “wrap of the day” from a McDonalds restaurant, like I'm known to often do. Then I toured the best crannies of the city, even though I don't know of any yet. Like many other places, it's home to architecture and at weekends there is culture. I won't be able to live in the nooks of the city because I'm a stranger in them. There are other ones nearby, I think. It will be something I won't learn until I bring my truck to them.
The world is always changing, making it impossible to ever be sure. I sometimes feel like my big decisions pass by like rumbles of distant traffic. Crossroads and consequences blend into each other; I often forget that this day is the first of the test of my life. I had always thought I would have decided what I was going to be by the time I was 25. I didn't realise I'd never have to choose.
Because I'm essentially without a goal, decisions can seem absurd, from what I'm going to eat, to where I'm going to work. In decision I find indecision and in indecision ambivalence is my defense mechanism against a fear of the unknown. But the indifference I feel in the moment is more towards ownership than outcomes. I care about outcomes because they are my life. I just wish I didn't feel responsible for them. It's difficult to make or understand a choice when the succeeding narrative is yet to materialise.
Only hindsight can fill in the detail. In all the jobs I've had, I've only left when I've reached a comfort zone, once I've turned fear of inadequacy into confidence. I've been sad to leave every job I've ever had but have only ever done so with enthusiasm for the next. The same is true of lovers, who have come and gone like passing relation ships in the night. Decisions don't pass me by, I just have a reluctance to admit accountability for the future.
Opposite my faux leather office chair, there's a block of flats guarded day and night by a thick metal door. Residents passing through rarely linger long in its frame, sometimes standing so to stop it swinging shut whilst they beckon in a companion or takeaway. Based on evidence gathered from my first floor vantage point, I would have postulated that the door was conventional, but there's a caretaker who'd disagree.
The caretaker, evidently a man of diligence, won't go through it without peering closely at the closing trajectory. Once closed, he'll often open it again gently, closely leaning in towards the fastening mechanism. After repeating a couple of times he'll go on his way with a deeply furrowed brow. He never tries to fix it. He is just fixated by it.
Even in preoccupation the door haunts him. Whilst briskly marching through the frame, the door comes slowly to a close behind him. He's probably on the way to take care of another part of the building. I watch eagerly as I know that in a climactic flash his head will always swivel around at just the right moment to see if the latch attaches the catch. I don't think he'll ever fix, avoid or understand this troubling door. Nor do I know why it's happened like this.
I sit, in my faux leather office chair, watching things like caretakers and fingertips that float across the alphabet on my keyboard. I swivel, in my faux leather office chair, often towards the kitchen, forgetting about making a cup of tea until I remember to. By which time, it's almost been made and affairs of some kind have been mentioned. I don't know why it happens like that.
To the brink
To the feel
In the morning
In the night
And alive, she's alight
At the sun
At the fun
To the left
I'm the worst
I'm the best
A blessing, a curse
Just watch me
She is wry
She is crying
Warnings're boring, hardly unkind
On the floor
What is known
What is seams
What it means
and flat, sidling
And sidled, and flat
And sidling, and sat
You can catch me blinking in the hallway or saying definitely nothing to an elsebody. The line between thinking and speaking is usually connected, like the passing thoughts I have about you. Thinking without saying's vice versa is tantamount to throwing eyeballs at walls, where they become part of the paintwork. My self assurance has grown dangerously. If we liaised online soon, I could perform to you what has become of my poise. Sometimes people ask me if I want to go back to the office. I'm ambivalent.