Void & Truth

I can't identify which one contains the other. Neither combination is comforting. Work has earned me few skills which would transfer to a job/career that would hold my interest. It has earned me few skills which could even be transferred to similar employment within the industry.
The surrender of ambition and dreams to supposed discipline has had a messy handover, particularly since I've realised that one cannot exist without the other.
I'm not sure if it's the distraction of painfully cold toes in a cold, cavernous, under populated office; the brain trauma caused by excessive hours of mind-numbing work; a lack of friends or a shrinking of personality that has diminished my sense of creativity.
It is most likely that none of these apply, as my staunch alliance with apathy and disinclination is entering its tenth anniversary. To celebrate the decade without desire or personal conflict seems apt.
Conversely, on merit, I would appear to be happy. There's no emotional strain, ache or choice fizzing in my head, there are no questions about what I should or shouldn't do. No placing myself in situations I know will spawn anger and pain. Everything fits, rewards a reaped from the seeds of effort that have been sown. Metaphors, dialect and accent are often mixed, melted and redistributed to set the scene as accurately as possible.
But the void can't be located and the truth is as yet undefined.

Arbeit macht frei

Tomorrow I start a new job, and this evening a cat chases a leaf around the kitchen. I think he killed it. And there's a salted peanut in the cupboard that looks like a small yellow slug.

I need a job

Still.

Wiki reading up about Wollstonecraft

I have long determined that the best thing I could do was to put an end to the existence of a being whose birth was unfortunate, and whose life has only been a series of pain to those persons who have hurt their health in endeavoring to promote her welfare. Perhaps to hear of my death will give you pain, but you will soon have the blessing of forgetting that such a creature ever existed as I

Frances Imlay

Stopt

and increasingly spotty.

Happy as a Pig in Shit

It's obvious and stuff, but disturbingly true when applied to an individual.

I'm

small and a bit ouchy today. Reconsidering the grand scheme of things. Not that there is one, but if there was, what it would be and why it would be wrong. Feel a bit odd... sort of changeful. And stuff