Are you sure this is Wednesday? It's been a strange week. I know my co-workers must be ready to nominate me for What Not to Wear. So far I've had a Fat-Day Monday, Tacky Tuesday, and Semi-Professional Wednesday. And while I'm glad to be back, it's hard not to lose my cool with the users, even after a week off. We seem to be going in circles on some things - I tell them no, they ask again anyway. And there's a pervasive fear among my fellow LAN managers of what's coming next - we've seen the future, and we've decided, futile or not, resistance is the only option we have. I'm trying to step back and figure out where I'll fit in the new regime...or even if I'll fit. Tonight we hit the books again - I have got to pass about five tests in the next two months. Something tells me that it's critical. Which means it may be awhile before I finish my pleasure reading.
Here I stand again, speaking to an empty room. My thoughts aren't worth the cyberspace they would take up if I cared to tweet or post to Facebook, but here I stand anyway. I had no idea how long it had been since my muse had forced me to write. I used to write almost daily, poetry mostly, when I was younger and believed that someone cared what I had to say. I wanted to be e.e. cummings or T.S. Eliot or anyone who seemed to be so comfortable in his own skin to pour out his emotions onto a blank page. It took me a few years to realize that the writers who filled my pantheon of literary deities were not that comfortable after all, but wrote because not writing was more painful than the spilling of emotion. So I think I will take up my keyboard once more, wade out into the battle, and write.
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