Still Life

Sometimes, like now, I have to wonder why I ever bother trying to make something of myself. I mean, I'm doing OK in my job. I actually appear to be getting some recognition for all my efforts, they're listening to what I have to say and I am in fact even influencing policy and procedure now.

But still I feel like it's not what I'm meant to be doing. And then I think I'm a prat for not seeing what I do as enough. And then I start on this downward spiral of self-pity and maudlin crap. And then I hate myself for being so fucking self-obsessed and stupid, and we go on a downward spiral.

The thing is, I still can't shake the initial feeling that there is something more, something... other. And it's out there and it's waiting for me.

I sometimes think that if I was painted now, and then again in ten years, I wouldn't change, I'd just be older. I'm still life.

Apples in a bowl, never changing, just decaying over time.