I'm sad. I'm tired. Tired of studying. Tired of fighting bureaucracy. Tired of smiling at people. Tired of putting one foot in front of another so there's a sale, a paycheck, groceries, a degree, another load of laundry at the end of the day. Nothing I do is creative. Everything's so ordinary. I want to do the right things in life, be responsible, be good, be useful. I want those things and I am those things. It's hard, though. Even after all these years I have to work at it.
I want to work hard at something fun for awhile. I'm so tired of trying to finish this degree.
Sadness seeps in when I'm not paying attention. I chose this, I wanted it, but that doesn't stop me wanting other things, too. I want my friends who live far away to live nearby. I want someone I can talk to about my nascent novel who's done it or tried it themselves. I want a different perspective. I'd settle for any perspective, actually. Right now I feel like I'm walking along the highway in the ditch next to it, looking up at the cars speeding past. I am tired of walking. I want to be in one of those cars. Not next year, not someday, now.
I want someone to say, "She has a degree in music? She must be talented." But that isn't going to happen. People will say, "She has a two-year degree? That's all?" They already say this, you know. I've told all sorts of people, people who I thought knew me, and when I tell them I'm getting my degree in music they're surprised, and then they say, "Your Bachelor's?" and I say no, my Associate's, and they look nonplussed because an A.A. isn't a real degree to anyone. That, oh that makes me feel sad.
I would have liked to impress someone. I would desperately like others to admire my hard work, the trouble I've gone through, the self-discipline necessary to get my degree in music all these long years later. I know I have done my best, that this is my limit and there will be no other degree. I will have my self-respect. I keep thinking it'll be enough, but I'm lying to myself. It isn't enough. Only a doctorate would really be enough and I'm sad, not crazy. I'm sick of school. I want out. I must remember that I chose this path.
This is nothing but a pity party. I know it. I told you about the ditch.
The French word for sad is triste. Sad is not terrible. Sad wants to be comforted. Douleureux, sorrowful, that is not the right word for this mood. Sorrow is heartbreak and weariness, no comfort to be found except as time passes. I'm fine, me, I'm not feeling the weight of the world on my shoulders, je ne suis pas douleureux. I'm just tired of how much is going on right now and inclined to think it won't amount to anything. It will, of course. I'll have clean laundry, some grades, money in the bank, happy clients.
The problem, I suppose, is all I can think of is how fast time is going by. I haven't done anything creative in months. Summer is nearly over. I am forty-five years old, I am in the August of life and autumn is approaching. When will I stop fighting my internal bureaucrat who says everything must be just so or others will blame you for not doing your share? I don't want to be blameless, I don't want to be fair, I want what I want and I just don't care.
Je suis triste, donc j'écris pour me soulager.
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