I’ve been coming into work early to get some important projects done. When the roads are clear and, even in June, the sun is only just coming up and the air is cold enough to give me goosebumps. Coming into the office that early has a funny feeling to it. This must be what winners feel like. The dedicated, proactive, and driven.
I don’t often give thought to what drives me. It is sometimes an unsettling thought, especially when one discovers something unexpected, when onion is peeled back and what’s there is less than exciting. When it is boring and trivial and what you thought was a dream ignited by something far flung and courageous is reducible to banal facts about your life, simple histories of perhaps ill-repute. Even things we’re trying to escape.
I like to write but I don’t know why. Not really. I have some guesses. Reading is fun. When you read a good thing, a really good thing, it makes you want to give that feeling to someone else. That little dip in your stomach and the warmth behind your face. Hence writing. But who reads anymore? No one reads. Why read? Because the internet is here to stay.
Human connection is a precarious thing. Most people read for a type of connection. They read for a communion on some level with another person, an intimate communion at the level of subconscious. But the internet also takes a swing at human connection, from a different angle. Rather than a singular intimate connection, behind the veils of human representation, it is more like a mob, a public mob with its own rules of discourse and anonymity. It is exposure to the pure, unfiltered shit.
One sip of hot coffee and I am ready. I don’t know what’s in front of me. Who does? But I will keep trudging. I have miles of spreadsheets to craft, profit indexes to analyze, and reports to generate. The cursor in Microsoft Word is blinking. Waiting for me to say something. What will I say?