A Job of Work

Whatever happened to that phrase?

A job of work. As in, “I’ve got a job of work to do.”

I have held many jobs in my lifetime. I hold several right now. Some are paid with chits that are sanctioned as currency by one government or another. Others, the important ones I think, are paid in dividends beyond price: son, friend, brother, boyfriend, husband, lover.

These sorts of jobs define our human experience, they make our existence what it is, was and ever will be. Whether good or bad, these jobs will come to define us in ways we will never entirely comprehend.

I hold many jobs of both sorts at this exact moment, my favorite is rather obviously that of being a writer, or being a good brother. I get paid for both of them, one somewhat differently than the other . . . but I do like to keep busy.

At any rate light at the end of tunnel, there is a beach waiting like a blank sheet of paper, a new chapter waiting to written upon its crisp emptiness, a story unfolds.

Perspective makes everything change, skew slightly left or right. Distance makes things clear.

I’m enjoying saying my silent goodbyes on my drives to and from, silently wishing-well into unknowing eyes, during salutations and valedictions. It’s been much more sweet than bitter. But that’s from my perspective.

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