Here I am again. I think this is even the same parking space I used yesterday… No, I was over one space. Staring into the tree’ skinny and twisted spine. The thin dark green leaves popping out at me. But it all feels like a dream. And I wish, instead of seeing through the thicket to the field of brown dead grass, there was a lush forest. Somewhere I could wonder. Fine a suitable bolder to sit on and eat my lunch. Feel the wind, hear the rustle of leaves, just to be at peace.

Instead I eat lunch in my car. I can’t bare to go back inside. I don’t want anyone to see me cry. I suppose I am being foolish when I should be thankful. I practically begged for this job afterall. But I’m not happy here. This isn’t what I want. I should be grateful for all the useful skills I am learning that I can translate right into marketing for my book. But… God… I am just so miserable! How does anyone do it? How does he do it? Work somewhere you’re just so unhappy? I should be used to it I suppose; or maybe my tolerance has warn thin.

“You’ll never be happy with your job.”

Is this true? Is there really nothing out there that I could like? Am I doomed to become a zombie answering telephones, “Thank you for calling… How can I help you?” Wandering through life with a gray overcast and slaving away at a job I hate all day to slave away working towards (what feels like) a hopeless dream by night?

It’s like… No matter what I do, or where I go, I am out of place. I look around at work and everyone seems to genuinely enjoy what they do. Even when they’re stressed you can just tell they are happy. I want that. I’ve only come close. The only thing that makes me happy is writing. But writing doesn’t pay the bills.

I should be happy. I work at a publishing company- a truly great company! It’s like I’m living the dream… I just don’t know whose dream it is…