rant to write

prolific. not.

i can’t write. nothing is happening worth writing about. even memories evade me.

rut. this is.

i wake up, and go through my day like it was pre-ordained. i work like a janitor fish. i clean up others’ shit and call it management advice. i do this and look at their grateful faces for the dirty work i do that somehow they think is a step forward toward their salvation. i do this all day everyday. in between, i do my own work and put it up for scrutiny of my control freak boss whose bottom-line i’m still trying to figure out after 3 years. i endure backhanded put-downs and brush-offs i know i don’t deserve.

i try to spice the hours with stolen moments of cheekiness. i check social networking sites and personal mail, thinking – ‘hey, this is getting back at you, i have a life outside of this.’, knowing full well that no amount of status’ likes will make me like the sad android that i evolved into.

when i can, i resort to bourgeois diversions. i order my dark mocha frappuccino believing that the slightest nuance in choice reflects my individuality. i have heartfelt conversations with friends over coffee or beer and regurgitate oprah or any other appropriate hollywood line, silently congratulating myself how clever i am. i go to the gym and pay for a trainer half my age motivate me to becoming more fit – not knowing that the rot is not in the flesh. i collect shoes, cd’s, dvd’s, tshirts and graphic novels and more and more feeling suspicious that this amassing of material things will not fill the vacuum in my soul. and then i smirk at how hopelessly superficial other people are.

i go home and project all my frustrations to my partner who has certainly contributed in a good share of it. i watch him pour his umpteenth drink and lament that while his intoxication provides nocturnal relief, it never really takes him away from his troubles. nor mine.

there. i got it out of my system.

trusting wholeheartedly (because oprah said so, or was it a hollywood movie?) that by letting off steam i can wax ms. congeniality again.

perhaps now i can write about truth, goodness, light and all those affirming introspective shit again.