more words

My year-long work project launched on Thursday-then-Friday. I would say that I’m proud and relieved, except plans for its second phase are already underway, which is blindingly common and unsurprising and all of that wonderful stuff but still deflating.

Working in such an intangible capacity every day is so strange for me. It’s been 15 months and I’m still not used to it. When I worked at a library, it was clear when I was doing something, improving something: books got reshelved, people found the sources they needed, sometimes I’d even see the “a-ha!” look and know I had witnessed a connection of knowledge to experience.

And now? More than twenty people spent a year on a project that, if we did it right, most people will never notice.

Selfishly, I wanted more of a result, and although we’ve all received accolades from our peers, I can’t help but feel a little depressed. After all the stress-related insomnia and other impacts to my physical and emotional well-being, that’s it, and that’s all there is, and what was I expecting, anyway?

As you can tell, today has been fairly existential in focus. I want to know what the game plan is, but there isn’t one. I am still naive enough to want to change the world, to leave it a better place than it was when I got here; I am still stubborn enough to be disappointed when not all of my actions are to that end.

I thought as my life went on its trajectory would clarify. Now I am more certain of who I am but less certain of what I do. There is less ink in the pen and fewer pages in the book, but more words to write.

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I acknowledge that I live and work on stolen Cowlitz, Clackamas, Atfalati, and Kalapuya land.
I give respect and reverence to those who came before me.