With less than fourty-eight hours left in this country, I am surprisingly dumbfounded on how to spend them. I left work at one, after having signed the papers and shook hand with Magnus one last time leaving them just in time for the Monday meeting, and ended up in a bakery on Bogstadveien.
I have been complaining about my work for weeks. I thought quitting would be a relief. Instead I feel as if someting inside me has died, as if I have igven up, faltered. Instead of the exalted light feeling of a new beginning, a peculiar melancholy fills my body and pumps its thick black flem through my veins with every heartbeat.
The cinnamonbun seemed nothing but tasteless dough and the orange juice was so sour it made my throat ache. The recording of Ernst-Hugo Jregrd reading Lovecraft would normally be enough to cheer me up anyday - there is nothing better than a good horror story fram a fabulous story teller - but today the words were as cheerless and gray as the overpriced bun.
I should be happy. Still I feel like a looser. Like I failed.
The weather outside the window illustrates my feelings. Despite the sunshine the road is darkened and glistening from the cold and heavy rain that keeps falling, making a perfect mirror to the tears I bleed inside.
It feels like ages since I first arrived with the train to Skoyen, arriving Norway for the first time ever a mere half hour ago and not really knowing where I was or where I was going. The first impression of Magnus, the office, the cafeteria. How polished it all looked. Had I only known how familiar I would grow to the sight of them. For months I have ate, lived and breathed Hafslund. My life has cirkled around security, the only piece of furniture of any meaning was an alarmsystem and my personal Jesus the big green number on the facewall at the office displaying how many sales I had this month. I do not know life in Norway without Hafslund. The logo is everywhere, constantly making my neck stiffen and my head spinning trying to find clues to which arguments would work best.
This is silly. I need to get back up. I need to pack my stuff. I need to do some needle work.
I need some music. I need to get The Stroked.
Stop me if I'm wrong (which is funny cause I'm writing this as a post.
Quitting doesn't make you a loser, or a failure or, oddly enough, a quitter. it just means that you wanted something else, something more, something new. you wanted... and still want, I believe... a change. but change is a curious thing, it doesn't come without loss... something can't be created without sacrifice... without loss, no matter how minute. so, that feeling that you're enduring... that is running through your veins is simply evidence that to some important part of you, your life there mattered. and that's wonderful.
Change is a funny thing, darling. sometimes it throws of things we never expect, like a feeling of loss at leaving something we might had planned to leave all along.
I hope you're ok.
xx