I’ve been feeling so lousy lately, in every possible way. It is physically draining and makes me feel like a kid wanting to hide beneath the blanket. My escapism comes in many forms, including playing with my new waterlogue app. And reading poetry. And cuddling with the cat. And skype conversations with my mother.
The loneliness and homesickness feel worse now due to many reasons, and probably because it’s my birthday soon. All those birthday rituals I’m used to will change. I’m trying not to feel too sorry for myself, as it doesn’t help, and I have plenty of work to keep me occupied. And I just keep reminding myself that I love my new job and that I’m here for a very good reason, and I would probably be more sad if I were in Australia now, without such a good job.
Mostly though, I’m just angry at myself for not taking care of myself as I should. I’m not a child anymore, and I know the pseudo-virtuousness of overworking to the point of exhaustion is only alluring in romantic theory rather than in practice. Many people use the ‘I’m so busy’ line as a badge of honour. I’m not. There’s nothing virtuous about not carving out proper time for pleasure and it’s counter-productive to doing good work efficiently. So here is a poem and some flowers.
By Maccabit Malkin from When Leaves Fall.