There’s something almost invigorating in realizing you truly loathe something. You can feel this burning inside you with a very sure and set emotion. The potential energy of your actions is building up slowly. At the right place at the right time, you could be moved to act upon this ferocity. But it’s in those environments where the real wrath starts to manifest that you should get out as soon as possible, especially if it occurs in a large part of your life.

I have a history of getting those instincts to flee a situation I realize is no longer good for me. I act upon them quickly, and suredly. I’ve never regretted those movements. Professionally I thought I was past them, at least ones to of this intensity. And yet, something still isn’t quite right. In fact, it’s become excessively wrong.

The last couple months have been riddled with flashes of these. I want to be anywhere but at my job. I’m coming to realize it’s not this company, or this project, or this city. It’s this entire industry. I told myself six years ago when I embarked on my change in major and newfound career pursuit that I would keep doing this until I no longer enjoyed it. Lately, there are more days I wish I wasn’t there than ones I am proud of what I do. What my life looks like ten years from now is nowhere near where I want it to look like. To be sure, I don’t know what the next ten years is going to look like for me in any degree of absolute certainty. But my usual gauge is look at the people above me and ask myself, “Do I want that for me?” If the answer is no, something must change.

That’s in large part why I’m pursuing the writing more seriously these days. Looking back as long as I can remember, reading and literature and true emotive verbal expression are the things I’ve loved and tapped into. Whether I want to scream into a void to feel a little less like I’m losing my mind, or disclose my deepest and darkest thoughts to anyone who tries to understand, writing has always been a sanctuary for me. I tried to explore it back in school, but was deterred by my parents due to the impractical nature of supporting myself on an English degree after graduation. To that end, they were right. But that doesn’t mean I don’t regret not fighting for it.

The furious contempt I feel pulsating through my veins at my work turns into a different kind of passion when I start writing. I pour myself out through a pen or a keyboard or a voice recorder. My blood pumps not with rage but with a throbbing need to connect. The feeling I used to get staring out my window and watching the lights from far away, wanting to capture what this surge felt like and seize it, is some days the only cornerstone of my memory that I have to hold onto reminding myself to live. The longer I placate that yearning with an occupation that quite frankly just feels like busy work is only making it fight harder to see the light of day.

I could add a million cliches like “life’s too short” or “you only live once,” but in truth the best way I can explain it to myself is I need to stop wondering and jump. I can’t make myself love this job again, but I can make myself stop wishing I did what I dreamt of every day and get on with it. Only by pushing myself past my comfort zone into an unknown I’ve never conceived can I get what I finally want.

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