A decade ago I worked for a place an hour away from my home. I'd intended to get an apartment closer, but within weeks of starting the job I realized I wouldn't be working there for long. So I didn't search for an apartment and saved money for the prospect of being unemployed.
When work is an hour away, everything feels rushed. I wasn't sleeping well because I hated my job, and an hour on the Garden State Parkway, twice a day, day in day out, is enough to make anyone's skin crawl. It was like working in a different time zone than where I lived.
These days, when I travel I like to keep my watch set to my home time zone. It's where my heart lives.
2 comments:
So, you wrote this thinking it goes straight into the ether. But here, in Chicago with its semi-clouded light and coolest July weekend in decades whether, my dog (a yellow mutt named Chloe and nicknamed Evil) is vigourously scolding the presumptive cat strolling through out back yard.
Metaphor is a wondrous thing, nearly as poingant as reality and sometimes more picturesque. Time carries on regardless.
Post a Comment