“Ennui” is one of my favorite words. I like the way it sounds. Even saying something like “I’m filled with ennui” conveys a sense of being stricken with something not so serious, yet possibly malignant. I could go on, but I’m going to stop her before I embarrass myself with needless melodrama.
But, yeah, I’m fucking bored. “Ennui” is just a nice way of putting how soul-suckingly (?) bored I am lately.
Case in point: I’ve detached myself from my job. I know I shouldn’t, but living the life of a contract IT cube monkey means there’s never any permanence in the work you do. You’re not quite a mercenary, but it sure feels like it: you’re throwing into a hostile environment, terror-ass your way around, and hope that when you finally get shot down, you’re snuffed out without knowing. What was that I said about melodrama?
Anyway, the project I’m working on is, without question, the most half-baked project involving millions and millions of dollars I’ve ever worked on. Long story short – and I don’t want to bore you with techno-babble, because it’s boring me to tears – I’m incredibly frustrated by the lack of progress and the worse lack of urgency. This is a crucial project, high-profile, even, yet everyone seems to be treating it like a redheaded stepchild.
(My apologies if you’re a redheaded stepchild reading this.)
I’m bored. I’m impatient. I’m cranky. I’m depressed. Jesus H. Christ, what a combo. No wonder I’ve been a really ray of fucking sunshine to be basking in lately.
So what’s wrong, you ask?
I’m really struggling to find the words I really want to say. Sometimes, I’ll find a song to fall back on, the song’s lyrics as a way of letting people in on something I have to say when I can’t seem to say it eloquently or without either coming across as a Hugh Grant-like stammering imbecile or completely insensitive.
There’s a pair of lines in the song Busy Bees, by Silversun Pickups, that I think sums up exactly how I feel lately:
If I could just slow down
And scribble on missing pages
Who would I write it for
And who would write it for me
For me, for me now
Some people wait just for a little bit
Why can’t I wait just for a little bit
Who am I writing “this” for? I thought I knew. For me, obviously, but is there someone else? I know there is.
I want my my little bit, and I want it right now. All I want to do is detach, dig deep into my writing, go out for long runs, drink obscene amounts of coffee, and get my damned manuscript finished, revised, revised again, and ready for submission. That’s all. But patience has never been my strong suit, and that just might be my biggest obstacle to truly being a writer. Writing requires an inordinate amount of patience, and you have to dig deep to find that patience, from places you never knew you had it in you. And that, dear reader, is what I’m going to be fighting against: a not-so-lethal yet highly-distracting combination of ennui and impatience. The next few months should be fun for me and the sanity of those around me.
Get your crash helmets on, folks.
Alright, enough of me bitching. This t-shirt came in the mail. Kind of appropriate for the mood I’m in lately, no?