A Nomad's Mantra

They say your environment has profound effect over your mood. If so, then I must be living in purgatory. ‘Grumpy’ is my new nickname at work. I’m flattered, actually. Sometimes I imagine myself as a real live Sim, just like the game, walking around with my usual routine, my ‘Room’ bar steadily draining. Some would say it’s the weather. Lack thereof in the UK might explain why the Britons are so dry. Scapegoating? You’ve caught me. Whatever the case, there out to be some reason behind my daily foul moods.

Lately, it seems it’s more ashamedly Freudian than I give it credit for. Home is a poster for disorder. You’d be hard-pressed to aspire to such, what with all the creatures running around. Angst rolls in daily, hovering like San Francisco’s fog. Disappointment hangs in the air like humidity. Lack of communication, or perhaps refusal of such in my case, might have spawned these atmospheric anomalies. I point the finger to my own contempt.

Growing up, you’ve been taught to have such high self-esteem in your own. Only to be burdened by the heavy truths that slowly creep into your ideals. Or is it that I feel I’ve been led on, thinking much of something that wasn’t there? Down from the hill, the slugs creep in all directions, and they always get their meet. The problem with living in ivory towers (Humor me, for the moment.) is that you come crashing down, with no safety net, once you step out that window. Ah, disenchantment.

Like many lessons I’ve learned too late, there aren’t a lot of things in this world you can rely on. Your very own sanctuary can crumble in your midst. You learn to keep moving, just to get your mind off the deconstruction around you.

Dear sister says I’ve been working too hard. Taking stern control, I guess, of the few that I find I can manipulate. Or compensating, as Sigmund would have it, for a source of pride to cool my jets. My body has been fighting back, waving hands in the air, asking for less commitment. I want to, but I feel like I’d lose all sanity if I stopped working. Say what they want about my home or where I come from, I’d say to myself, but they’ll never find I bone to pick from me.

A prophet once argued that a happy worker makes sturdier bricks. Yet the Pharaoh knows that frequent rewards breeds complacency. Productivity and contentment is, indeed, a delicate balance.

“The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.”