So, I'm feeling crappy because of a coworker. She has managed to make me feel like a slacker/loser/idiot for working oinly 40 hours a week. What's up with that? Sure I have work I'm oing but the idea of needing to be here for 50+ hours a week is ridiculous. It's important to me that I have a life outside of work. I'm getting things done, though the work is raining down close to completion day. But, I don't forsee the need to be here long hours in the next few weeks. But then, I generally over etimate the time it takes to do anything. Thus, I found more time to do things this week given the ease of doing some previously believed difficult activities.
It wasn't intentional, for what I can see. She's just generally a surly person and I don't feel it was nearly a personal attack. Lame. I can't think of words better to describe it at the moment. My mind has transitioned away from linking strange words in grammatically uncooth manners since the book ended. Now, all I get is flashes of images and snippets of dialogue that can't really be expressed properly in poetry/prose/prosetry.
Point: I once heard the mind described as modular. We have this core thinking ability, intelilgence, whatnot. As we go about our day we plug different tracks into certain sections in orrder to fulfil some function properly... like going from Math Class to Music. To that end, I think I've pulled out and peed on the poetry module of my brain. The idea of writing anoter poem any time soon makes me sick. The only lines I can pull, from a somewhat difficult to reach orifice, are terrible - trite phrases suited only for angsty poetry rittled through with creative spellings of the word "dark."
The typical image that I get of the true artist is a completely self involved ass (which, apologies I send to lady_fox because I tuned her out last night as I finished the page). But, beyond self-involved, they are unable to retain anything long enough to see it through. The artists I know, knew, could rarely sustain a single project long enough to really finish it. It got done, but it wasn't really done if that makes sense. It's like their modules were in overdrive...
I leave you with this:
Our brains are autochanging 8-track players. The artists mind is just set to chipmunk speed.
I will not feel guilty
for living a full life.