Sometimes I find myself unable to live up to the immense pressure of the weekend. When I realize I'm unable to attain that state of perfect relaxation, that rush of intense joy filling my body with wonder and curiosity - or at the very least, a nice meal - I get so mopey and depressed.
I just wrote a three paragraph rant on the injustice of working a 45-hour week and what it does to the human soul, but then I erased it. Meh. I guess it felt cliche, like nobody doesn't already know... I just feel such a sadness at this age in my life: working almost every single day for barely enough; not knowing what I want to do; or whether to do it; the meaning of the word "do" and whether it's positive or destructive; this dull emptiness.
I found myself wandering around Oakland Chinatown tonight, hoping to catch one of the markets before they closed down to grab some ground pork. It was dusk and the air felt fresh on my bare legs. I could hear ducks calling from around the lake. Most of the people in this busy working class restaurant district were gone for the night.
For the first time today, I felt a calm. The atmosphere tapped into a feeling I've been having about what it means to work and to go home. And I guess, what happens in between...
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