the start of a rambling book. or maybe not.

This was supposed to be a holiday. This wasn’t supposed to be endless hours spent floating in this pool of what I now know is reality, or what everyone arounds me accepts and takes for granted as reality. Instead of sitting here with my eyes constantly being opened by the magestic spread of stars above, beach below and ocean ahead, I am resting in my cold, dank basement hoping for something to lift me.

Occasionally, it’s work that does that. I can find comfort in helping others, just as I revel in the reward (yes, reward) that I seem to get out of donating to charity. It’s another tragedy and another opportunity for my own satisfaction with my own charitable character.

My lint brush is lying on the floor. It doesn’t really like to be used too much on my work coat. Nevermind the fact that, we, in the public service, deserve to look spectacular at all times, even when answering the phone. Perhaps that’s why certain individuals streak their hair and some fluff their cheeks and others, well, others tuck their rolls behind belts that may as well be another size – but we’re too cheap to buy another size.

Yes, this was supposed to be a break from all of this. This was supposed to be a time spent sipping Cuban rum, or even Venezuelan rum… it doesn’t matter the origin, what matters is the fact that none of this is actually occuring. Instead, I’m struggling with the concept of being down here, alone, and tired of the surroundings.