i feel myself receeding in this cubicle. the more i work, the less i am, the less i have become. in giving myself to work - to colleagues, to children, to marking, to the endless setting of papers, i have lost myself -my desire to live life as i have always believed. i am giving up on living life as i have dreamed, in the pursuit of comfort and conventions. in eating lunch with mundane colleagues who inspire me to kill myself lest my life turns into something which resembles their lives. it takes all i have not to cry out in despair.
every day is a fresh day, a fresh day is supposed to bring new promise into life. a fresh day is supposed to make you feel revived just by thinking about the excitement that the day beckons. or am i just to naive to expect any more from life rather than just a comfy bed, family to return home to at the end of the day and a job that manages to pay the bills.
sometimes, i wish i were just like everyone else. or do i? i still adore my weird personality, my individuality.
every morning i wake up and i wonder if i should go to work early. the drive is no longer there, yet, a sense of responsbility still keeps me going ahead of others to finish up my work. every morning, the nice colleagues greet me, but it's all i can do but to tell them that i would rather be anywhere but here.