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bright nothing

I was helping a co-worker ship a package. He asked me about my plans. I wasn't sure what he meant. I think he meant my plans for my role in this office. Or my plans for life in general. And I didn't have any substantial answer. Maybe that's because I don't have any substantial plans. I still cringe in the half-light of my delusions and fantasies. I have these projects that I work on in secret motel at night and on the weekend. But I don't talk about them with anyone in the office. Because my car wrecks and airline disasters are very personal, and talking about them makes me uncomfortable. And I've had very little, little pinpoints of success in placing them. And if people know that you have projects, they'll never stop asking you all manner of horrible questions that you don't really want to answer. It's good to have a secret occupation where you are free to play and fail without being scrutinized and judged by those in your immediate life.

I don't even think there's much ambition in the way I approach my projects. They are just coping and survival mechanisms--my sagging defense in an existence of days running together. Named faces form and fade, but I'm still here in all this bright nothing.

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