The work Diaries- Part 1

Like many teenagers, when summer rolled around and my pocked emptied , I sought out a job to replenish my savings.

Applications were sent, pleas were made and CV’s edited but to no avail as I faced rejection at every corner. Thankfully my mother swooped in with a dash of nepotism(How else will you got far in life?) and provided me with a 2 week registration stint. My job was meant to be aiding university registration for the new year, whether it be technical glitches or menial labour. However, the literary stars aligned and I was placed elsewhere.

An old dramatic Arts Professor and Executive Dean required my assistance as his secretary has taken ill, and so my journey through the mountains of rat chewed paper had begun. I was truly at the edge of a cliff as I contemplated my own end due to incredible boredom. I filed papers, I tore up paper (confidentially reasons) and I got battle wounds( paper cuts) for my tireless service. At lunch I’d sneak away and quietly read a book in the kitchen and watch the clock taunt me maniacally.

My body, being an exhausted vessel, a direct result of my non-existent sleeping pattern, sunk into the depths of my bed when I got home.

Day 2 was the catalyst for change. The day before, I had noticed a rather fanciful and interesting book collection in the Professor’s office, ,mainly featuring the works of Shakespeare (The first person I stanned). Being the socially awkward dweeb that I am, I feared bringing up the shared interest but the plunge off paper (see mountain) cliff anyway. It turns out I was amongst another stan of epic proportions and Shakespeare became the gap to bridge generations. The Professor had not only studied, performed  and directed Shakespeare but also dedicated his entire Phd to the Upstart crow himself, at the University of London.

He delightfully performed a Hamlet Soliloquy, which I of course applauded and sent me home with a batch of my favourite quotes from my unconventionally favourite play “The Merchant of Venice”

It felt wonderful to engage in conversation over  a shared passion and GET PAID FOR IT. It made work not seem as dreary as it did before but the joy can only last so long.

Shakespeare humour - Hamlet.

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Taking back the reins

I have completely lost the plot, instead of writing for myself as an outlet, I fell pray to consumerist ideals and focused my content on audience perception and less on my main objective. This blog was created to post my ramblings and sometimes curated pieces for you to read and enjoy, but I got so caught up in my pursuit of validation, that I forgot write for myself.

So began the block, the wall as imaginary as the one dear old Donald plans to build. The foundation laid down by own stupidity and the bricks pieced together by the fabric of my depression. Sometimes quaint little windows would appear and breach the everlasting sunlight.

But,the tears dry, the day begins again and I seek solace and contentment. I am no poet, No writer, merely a custodian of words, whether they be freely flowing or caged within my mind

Image result for writers block