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  • I remember when I relished having nothing to do. Wishing I would have more time to "do things".
    Yet here I am, each day an empty void waiting to be filled, and I'm challenged. I look at the large, gaping hole, i'm teetering at the edge, without a parachute.
    No rejection letters today, but no acceptions either.
    I spent this morning in the bath, because when you're unemployed, having a long bath at 10am appeals as a good idea.
    There was a problem.
    I couldn't relax.
    I didn't enjoy the luxury that a bath should have.
    I was reminded of a poem that I wrote in the bath of my flat when I lived in Norwich. When I lived alone
    and not with my parents,
    nor with my older brother, (who is raking in a pretty sizeable salary and hasn't even reached his quarter century).
    I wrote the poem when my life was fun, and sociable, and creative.
    And busy.
    Here is an extract;

    "Cracking through the ice, breaking a surface to breathe.
    Like breaking a crème caramel, like breaking an eggshell, like breaking a bone.

    But I will have to wait; mindlessly numb."

    Rather fitting, I thought, as the bubbles began to disappear, as the water grew cold, as the plug gurgled while the unwanted hours drained away.
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