Chest Talk (Dibdibang Usapan)

I am at a proverbial fork
in the road.

Which path do I take.

There is a certain sense of foreboding on either path that makes me hesitate to take another step. Forward. Any-ward.

Tell me which bit of mushroom will take me where I need to go? To a safe place where this heavy gloominess will release its hold on me. I am not happy.

I no longer find joy in the noble pursuit of my profession. I am devoid now of any passion for my work and my students and am left only with this dry bitterness and irascibility identified with a coarse spinster. I am automatic.

And I am sad. Because I love my work. Pardon the contradiction, but I can explain it no better.

I love my work and I should love my work. But I hate working. I hate it so much with such a deep deep dryness that turns my insides to dust. And I weep sand for what I do not have and cannot grasp.

I love the work. But it no longer makes me happy.
It doesn't make me sad.
It doesn't make me anything.
There is no joy. There is no hurt. There is no anything.

And I cannot bear that there isn't.

I hate that I am nothing. That I want nothing and work for nothing, and that I exert nothing for what is worth nothing. I am not happy.

Shall I then take the road that in my pride I once spurned?
The past couple of years I have, with great difficulty but nevertheless successfully, learned the valuable art of swallowing one's pride along with tattered remnants of my dignity. It gets easier with time and with frequency, because eventually there isn't much left of either to swallow.

It doesn't, however, make the decision any easier.

The road not less frequently traveled. It has, in fact, grown quite bumpy and riddled with debris by the innumerable people who have decided to stomp along it.

The wide and open gate fronting the wide and open road. Ultimately, that is all it really is. Nothing but cold, hard concrete. Asphalt, if you prefer. But, still, cold.
How, then, does this help my predicament? Am I not in a conundrum?

Yes.
But my desperation leads my feet to face this road.
And I am desperate.
I am desperate.

Cold and hard it may be, riddled with refuse but the smooth concrete will provide me (us) some sense of relief. And maybe I can breathe. Maybe I can finally breathe.

What will I do? Which road shall I take?
In spite of sincere words of care and caution, I am desperate. And you know what they say about the desperate...

I am desperate, and unhappy. I am unhappy.
I am unhappy.