The Proustian Bohemia

To be funemployed again! I finally am employed, but I was planning on not making that announcement here (and to add a literary triubte, I’ll only refer to it as C— like some 19th century novel). I am going to live in the bohemian ideal of the starving artist a little longer. It was in my head anyway, so I think I’ll hold onto this space where I can carve out the imaginary garret, pretend I’m some sort of Baudelaire.

All blogs are some sort of fiction anyways. Perception is too one sided to be any kind of truth and the idea that memoirs are somehow only the truth is one big joke set up by publisher’s publicity department.

The best thing about working (besides money and the feeling that I am now a real person) is that I remembered why I want to write. Escapism may be the easiest idea surrounding the need to write, but I’ve reinforced why I want to do something. I am not endlessly drifting, bored by myself, trying to grasp some sort of meaning in what life dealt out. It’s rather sad that my personhood is so tied up in a job. But who does not want a purpose, however small or arbitrary? And if nothing else, it’s so important to know why you love something.

Now back to the garret and the artists life. Too much reality ruins a good narrative.


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