One more day of writing about this software package, then I leave for Boston.
I'm trying my very best, but my insides are feeling raw. I wish I knew of a better way to conduct myself as I do my work. My heart wants to do well for this company. It's just that I can't, not these days anyway. They don't deserve this.
I feel like a towel that's been wrung and wrung into a tight twist, sitting on the sink, in view of a scorching sun.
Moisture, like my creativity, is gone. The towel is bone dry. And if someone were to wring and wring, the result would be no different.
Words! Where are the words? It's just that the sun took them away somehow, and there is nothing in near view to immerse me again.
So I ask the Universe this: Throw me into another bucket of water, somewhere. It is with utter frightfulness that I ask this, but my option to keep things just so makes me crumple anyway.
Posted by ruth at June 19, 2002 08:56 PM
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