Sitting at my coffee shop, loving the way the coffee is always burned when I come in, perfect when I leave; it is hard for me to think, in the relative safety of having a room already paid for, five classes overwhelming me with writing, and a gig that makes me a woman of modest means, that in two months I'd better have a real job with a real income and health insurance. I'd rather work here. If I could only live off of here...

Life has been amazingly comforting lately, and I am not sure why. I was thinking more the other day about something V--- had said - about being privelaged and about having bought myself a priveleged mind and an upper-middle class education - and my response, concerning something about having "natural talent" despite your financial means and advantages, and about not feeling bad for being advantaged. And then I was thinking further about what had led me to determine that anyone had "natural talent", as everyone is a product of an environment and not of nature, or genetics, purely; that what led me to this statement was a series of assumptions I've had so successfully drilled into me - a product of our generation's "Romantic" conecpt of the purpose of Work and of Life; our "me"-centric-ness, perhaps. And I was happy about all of this thinking, and the realization that I am solely what I have created myself to be, and how others have interpreted that creation to be; and futhermore that my reality is an extension of that creation. It is an incredibly empowering feeling to know that life is how I choose it to be, how I choose to narrate it.

But I can see how easily this revelation could alternately be associated with some existential angst - to be a creation of words, mere words, and of nothing more. That the only equalizer is death, past which we have no certain narration.

hmmm.