squalor

I've been working in filth. Removing dog urine saturated carpets in a jumpsuit, respirator, and black gloves is far from glamorous, but it pays bills and I am learning how to labor.

As I think toward my future I try not to bite my nails, rip my hair, burn my skin. Instead I scour craigslist in search of a career. The pragmatic side of me questions historical Chaya; the enigmatic me says faith based living has me here. But where is here. I question my commitment to myself. These are big questions. I wonder why I never completed the final two months of fashion school or spoke to the people who could help me pursue my career as an artist or how I failed to become a professional horse trainer. I am wondering if I have a deep seated bend towards sabotage. I certainly hope this is not the case, that the latent tremors of nostalgia speak to my desire to create rather than destroy.