Running to lose.
Running to lose.
So. This, is how it feels like.
This is how it feels like, to be overworked, underpaid, and along with that: an extremely faint hint of sincere appreciation, for all the things I have done.
Perhaps to sum it all up in one word, would be this: work. Is that how it is supposed to be?
And with that, I was very much aware of the fact that I was gripping the steering wheel with a pair of crinkled eyebrows, and not braking smoothly (meaning that whenever I press on the brake, I jerk forward – and I absolutely hate that) while braving the traffic jams home.
This is something that I know very well cannot be avoided – having your work rejected, that is. I have encountered that too many a time during my first year of studies, courtesy of a particularly meticulous lecturer who seemingly seeks delight in looking at the dejected faces of his students, after tearing and throwing artworks across the room. Strangely enough, he garnered a fair share of admirers despite his strictness and his demands for perfectionism.
But when criticism comes from someone who – I have to say – is not very well-trained in the field, it comes across as some sort of a disrespect for the work that has been done. It probably was not meant to be that way, but I could tell that there was a certain degree of that in the air.
Not that I am claiming to be good in what I do – on the contrary, I am still learning. I know my limitations, and I know where I stand. Still, I want to be able to look up to someone who possesses a generous amount of experience, skills, and knowledge – one who has got what it takes, to be a leader and a guide. But today’s events only seem to reinforce the nagging thought that I have been having in my mind for months now, and still counting – that I feel that I am learning the wrong things, and going towards a wrong direction.
Horribly enough, there are times that I feel like I am going backwards. It is also safe to assume that I am doing work which was originally meant for two people. In short, I am doing more than I am supposed to, while others seem to be sitting back and enjoying the view, a glass of wine in hand. Oh, the injustice of it all is just so blindingly glaring.
This is not going to work, and I need to go someplace else to scream my head off.
If all this griping makes me sound immature and naive; maybe I really am. I do not know.
Six. Weeks. Could it come soon enough?
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