My walls are covered with printouts and reminders. There’s a desk calendar pinned to the side of my cubicle, unused, too big to fit among the mess of papers and folders on my desk. Emails pop up on my screen as my many managers forward me work and tasks, each one thinking thier project is more important than the others, none of which I can finish in their unrealistic time frames.
But my mind is elsewhere, as it usually is. I’d rather be on my back deck reading or writing or editing. My mind feels atrophied by the long line of tedious tasks, repeating the same formula. It longs to create worlds or fill in the ones already created, too much of its time dedicated to earning a more than decent paycheck for the slab of flesh sitting in its office chair.
People call, asking questions, complaining, following up. They’re the real people in the real world, trapped in their own day-to-day rhetoric. They whine and bitch about schedules and payments and contractors and everything in between.
But I don’t pay them much mind. Deep down they know they need me more than I need them, so they eventually give up. I’m more concerned with fictional people in the places I’ve created. They’re the ones on which I want and need to focus.
But time is money, and we all always need more. So it’s off to the real world and its hourly rate.
But this is by no means goodbye.