'm unemployed again. Again in the overnight. Again to collect things. Back to sign the release. Mourn again and again to lament.
My working life is becoming a "again" too continuous. And like everything that is repeated much, just tired. So I start to get tired and as with laces. Soreness and stiffness in the nerves in the mood. Because it hurts to look again into the void, because I'm embarrassed to return calls and messages, begging for a job, because I look at my home, I retreat, where he took the sun, which is the home of Salsa and I have fear of inability to pay. I hate going to the unemployment line and feel like a failure who has to resort to the state (and, I know. It is my right, blah, blah, blah, but you feel like giving wins.) Because I collect first-world problems. That
before someone tell me again it could be worse. That before someone tell me again to take the opportunity to go on vacation, so before someone tells me that in fifteen days I'll be working again. For just the way it happens, but nobody gives it to you in writing, so yesterday morning, in tears, I stood at the window of my house and asked that, at least these days, given enough sun.
For now, the first day of "stop again" (I'll do a song called "Unemployed again, naturally"), it rains. I guess now I can only get better.
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