I see my patience as sands in an hourglass pouring quickly away. Applying for jobs is an exercise in futility. I can’t stand the look of my resume any longer. I don’t want to be reminded of all the jobs I have had and the stark realization that they have afforded me little more than a long and useless history.
How many phone calls have I answered in the last twenty years? It seems a lot of wasted effort in making other peoples lives easier. I can’t help but think of Oscar Wilde in prison, sentenced to hard labor. He was forced to walk on maniacal treadmills for hours on end, going no where and achieving nothing.
My mother has always said, “Patience is a virtue, keep it if you can, often found in woman seldom found in man.” It has always made me shake with frustration.
It seems more relevant these days because my hands and wrists hurt so much. The pain wakes me up at night. Maybe its carpal tunnel, it could be arthritis. The terror of losing the use of my hands or having to restrict my activities has left me enraged. My needlework has sustained me. Writing with a pen and paper has cleansed me. Turning a steering wheel has given me freedom.
There are too many projects unfinished. Stories that have lain dormant for years should have been scribbled long ago.
Perhaps this missive is nothing more than display of self pity. Inspiration is too hard to find and in scarce supply, maybe I should try to embroider that on a pillow while watching “My Left Foot”. I need to wrench myself from this malaise.
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