Have you ever felt weary with memories? Not merely inundated by, but weary with?
Last week, sitting within a café which had once been the sole source of my income, I became weary. Worn by a reaffirmation of how arbitrarily lives are defined.
Reminiscing over stranger-ground beans, my internal monologue ran as such:
"Confined by these walls, I have worked. Worked when my life was so very different than it is now. The company which I chose to keep; the means by which I filled my off hours, so very different than now. Not regrettable, just different."
I enjoyed spending time in a place once familiar and somehow new again. I don't think that one may appreciate such an experience within many career venues.
Does one randomly return to the office of once upon a time, and contemplate the course of one's life while sipping filtered water from a Dixie cup? Probably not. But I suppose I'm not qualified to infer. I've never been an office temp. I've never been anything other than a waitress. Economically speaking. I've been many things, but I've never made my living outside of the service industry.
In a bizarre fashion, I have found myself privileged. I need no excuse, other than my severe predilection for caffeine, to return to the grounds of days past.
If you do not share my fortune, I recommend still returning. Revisit your past; understand your present; forge your future deliberately.
It is okay if your memories make you weary. Some of my best insights occur when I am in a state of exhaustion. Ribbons of boundaries fall to ankles, like discarded clothing in the heat of passion, leaving you vulnerable and ready.
What are you ready for?
The choice is yours.
