Works of Genius

Job Limbo

I am in job limbo, which is the rolling, tumbling, ceaseless stumbling of the self into the office in the morning and out of the office at in the evening. Days pass and the hours pass and the minutes pass. Swiftly every day becoming the past before it has even begun.

I have conversations with people. Coworkers, I think. And I think and I think and I think and I think. The coworkers are there and they talk, but I think. My, how they talk. At length and volume and dearth of topic. And me, oh, I think.

I think long, dark, creepy-crawly thoughts of economics and design. I think of longevity and futility. I think of the tricky, sticky hands of time as I tick off another line of paperwork. Ambition is key.

I work with children. The children have needs—oh so many needs. They need this and they need you and they need to go to the bathroom and, and, and! They need to shut up because I have a headache, but they need to talk, too. And they, first and foremost, need to talk to you.

And I, well, I sometimes get drawn into their myopic worlds of illusion and selfish curation. The stories, you see, are sometimes quite fascinating. They ripple and giggle and burble. Then suddenly, out of nowhere, a chair comes flying at you. That is when the honeymoon is over. That is when the teeth begin to gnash, the nails sharpen to a point, and the point of your job, you wonder and question, numbly searching for the job description buried somewhere in the foggy recesses of your brain.

This might be depression. They way it all runs flat, directionless, muddy gray into nothing. Less than meaningless. Another morning into night. Moaning on a Sunday night about the day that’s soon to come. Mumbled fears that aren’t even fears really, just lumps of dread, deadweight psychic sparks.

This might be underemployment. Moving a pen across white paper, always black, never blue. Secret trips to the bathroom to look at job listings on your phone. Hours spent clicking away on career building sites. The hum click whir of the copier for another set of forms, the ink wet and warm. Laying in the arms of your loved one saying blankly, “I hate everything.” Maybe you don’t hate everything. Still, everything is slow and nothing is advancing.

This might be the life of a twenty-something. Building a resume and making connections. Day after day after day. Putting your time in until it’s Friday night. Friday night—that mythical beast. A momentary respite from the droning needs of others around you. An oasis in your own sloppy solipsism, an answer. Lazy.

I hate everything. Nothing is advancing.