i hate my job
on giving thanks, and wanting more.
i do the work i do because of practicality. not once have i espoused practicality anywhere else in my life or in anyone else’s. so why, when it comes to money and pride, do i abandon all my pillars of belief?
creation is divine. to create is to be one with the divine. taking away someone’s means to create is, in short, evil.
i think artists should make art. i think the world should depend on it as the soul does. but the world depends on sickness, perversion, poverty, blasphemy, blood, and most of all money.
i was not born silver-spooned but came close, am edging closer. at least that’s what it feels like. as more and more people are crippled by inflation + shrinkflation + price gouging + pandemics + crises of health + crises of weather + crises of living + above all, wages low and dark as a tarpit, a sinkhole, a sandtrap—i feel cushy and safe and worst of all lucky.
luck has saved me. luck has sheltered me, coddled me. luck is the god i give thanks to most. what makes it alarming is that luck plays a game of comparison: i am lucky because someone else has it worse. i am lucky because at least i am not hungry or cold or overworked or in pain. i am lucky because most people are not.
every time i think about quitting my job, i think: but you’re so lucky to have it. you work so little [compared to everyone else]. you’re paid so much [compared to everyone else]. you have time to cook, clean, take care of your family [unlike so many others]. there’s no better option [you’re pushing your luck].
i am always telling my friends to want more. there is more. the capitalist world is a zero-sum game, but the divine and giving world is infinite. not only is there more—there’s everything.
i’m much closer to having nothing than i am to having everything. every moment spent at my shitty soulless job is a moment i could be cooking, eating, praying, reading, watching birds, planting vegetables, phoning a friend, writing a letter, making art, peeling fruit, sunbathing, swimming, walking, sprinting, waiting, thinking, learning, loving with all my heart. every moment at the job i hate could otherwise be spent:
being
creating
it appears to me that gratitude is invaluable for the mood but destructive to the imagination (which would explain why the church is so big on giving thanks). i don’t want to complain. i don’t want to be unhappy. i just need to be, or what will change?
contentment is for healthy circumstances. satisfaction in a sick world is a symptom. i hate my job, as i should. i am working on following through on the feeling, on trusting the infinite, on pushing my luck. in the meantime, i’m not saying don’t be grateful. i’m just saying: believe in the moments you’ve wanted more.