More dreams about getting away, going somewhere. There is always something that prevents it from happening. The car runs out of gas. Someone catches me. There is more packing to do. I get lost. My mom once chided me about listening to too much music all the time amounting to escapism. In my callow youth, I retorted that her religion was its own kind of escapism. It was an easy thing to say, though it wasn’t really fair or kind. Who doesn’t want to escape? If the default was to be a hardcore realist, then the entertainment industry would vanish overnight. Everything becomes an escape, a diversion. For most people, it’s just about boredom. Or, to be more precise, the problems of the real world for the individual are mundane and mostly not worth thinking about. They are either surmountable, and they get worked through in due course, or they are not, and they are pushed to a back corner somewhere and left to live as monsters in the house with the family.
The problems of the real world beyond the individual are utterly out of our control, and we hate that. We hate that in the end, we have no control over whether Trump decides to push a nuke button or not. We like to think that posting angrily on Facebook will amount to something, even as we know we’ve defriended everyone who isn’t in the choir and we are just posting inside an echo chamber.
Mostly this morning, a feeling of caring so little about work, and running late because everyone is probably running late due to the ice storm yesterday. The two places that looked promising–one of them I applied to–were confirmed by someone I know who had worked at both of them to be absolute shit. Nothing but egos running rampant. So, I will return to my own suboptimal workplace where egos aren’t the problem, but an utter lack of giving a shit about the problems we who are in marketing are facing. It’s hard to give a shit when your boss clearly does not, though he says he does once a month and makes a little noise about caring.