I should be unemployed.

Pinpointing a place to start is nearly impossible.
this is reminiscent of the anxiety I use to feel when I couldn't figure out what to write on the first page of a notebook. I mean, no matter what, every time I opened my notebook I would have to see the ugly chicken scratch of that particular days musings. then I would mock myself weeks later for the words I used and the things that I felt.
Perhaps I can begin there:


Right before we jumped off the dock I regretted the flippers I got. they didn't feel right. the water was freezing and felt like pins all over my face. We all searched for strange looking fish that we had never seen before with our flashlights and clung to each other to keep warm. then they told us to turn of the flashlights. the bioluminescence floated aimlessly around in front of my face and I kept reaching out. It was as though we were swimming through stars. finding something like this, seeing it felt impossible.

I work against being the sentimental type.
I work against it like its my job.
maybe it is.
maybe it shouldn't be.