Go, Fight, Wait
Remember that feeling in college when you had two papers, 100 pages of reading and an extracurricular activity breathing down your neck all at once, with only one or two days to accomplish and focus on any of it? Do you remember hating that feeling and wanting nothing more than to stretch yourself out and dedicate time to nothing but time itself, think only five minutes into the future and simply exist without obligation?
Strangely, I’ve found myself in an obscure middle between those opposite states of mind. My work as an editor so far, though thrilling and full of stress and problem-solving is, at times, mind-numbingly dull. Not the dull where you feel free and at ease, surrendering to uncertainty and spontaneity. It’s like sitting in a muddy trench, waiting for the next round of machine gun shots to pierce the still, overcast afternoon, waiting for the next grenade to plop down next to you and the short panic that ensues as you hastily (1) scoop up the deadly (2) device and chuck it (3) as far and as fast (4) as possible. Sure you could clean your rifle for the 500th time, reread the letters from Mom and Grandma stored in your breast pocket or shoot the shit with your fellow soldiers about the women they fucked back home, but it really never sterilizes the anxiety that something, somewhere, at some unknown time will demand your complete attention with explosive force. Shoot or be shot. Kill or be killed. Finish or be finished. Usually, these firefights are extinguished in a short time. Thirty minutes here, an hour there. And then it’s back to shooting the shit and waiting. Waiting. Waiting.
Somehow, I kept that metaphor going. Though I in NO WAY consider my job to be on par with military action in regards to skill, courage, strength or importance, the comparison was compelling enough that I decided to elaborate on it. Though, I’m sure some numbskull will find this offensive.
That said, I’m fucking bored and waiting anxiously until the next grenade demands my immediate and swift attention.
