Early in the morning, sitting down to write about the experiences of a workaholic may look like a little bit of a paradox in itself. But, nevertheless my writing other than being my escapade is my work too. Though, feeling guilty about not working enough eats me up day and night, I would keep aside the familiar feeling right now because, well, here I would like to see myself as working. Confessions have never been a part of who I am and sadly or not I refuse to ever make it a part of myself. I have always loved to weave words through romanticism meshes and adorn them with complexity and chaos. Blatantly speaking my mind out, well, has never been on my plates. Today, for a change I would like to confess. Confess about what it feels like to be a young workaholic.
I have always been seen to be a person busy cuddling with my fantasies, day dreaming my moments while slipping under my cozy white blanket. In my mind whereas, I have always been an ardent workaholic. There lies the chaos and as life is all about paradoxes, there lies my façade or paradox, or whatever else you shall wish to call it.
College to my friends and acquaintances is and has always been about fun, frolic and relaxation. I would lie, if I said it wasn’t that for me too, when I initially entered the premises of my University. But, after a month or two, it began to become different. Hardly, two months had passed that I had started crawling into the lap of work. This work was in its own varieties. I started with an NGO and then moved on to another along with it. I began to write for websites and began enrolling myself into content management companies, I soon saw myself working into an event management enterprise before I could catch even a single breath. It was all so new and all so raw and all at once. Now, when I look back and think, I wonder whether work chose me or I enveloped myself all around it? And I also wonder whether maybe it was a bit of both..
Well, now, slowly taking cat-steps to crawl into the confession part, I would say relaxation scared me. It still scares me so much that I hate to think about it as well. For the ones, who are thinking me to be a workaholic creep, I would just like to clarify that I am not a person devoid of feelings and day dreaming. Actually, emotions are the most important part of who I am and I still steal glances at my day dreams every two minutes, despite working all the time. But, work gives me a sense of relief, you see, the kind of relief maybe a lonely soul receives while sitting on an empty wooden bench, at the edge of a cliff.
All the work piled up, deadlines messing with my head, me having to write on a topic or urgently brainstorming for a fund-raising campaign all of this helps me to breathe in a way, in a way that I would like to breathe all my life. Sometimes crossing the deadlines, sitting with my transcription workload for hours after midnight, planning a schedule for my communicative English classes, rushing down on memory lanes to manufacture freshly evolved nostalgia, writing on all the romanticism in the world, makes me think, sometimes makes me think so fast that I hardly remember what I thought anymore. I guess, that might be the trick.
It feels restless and sometimes it is tiring, to be wide awake all night, rushing out of college in the draining heat when all the other faces I see are relaxing, talking about life. It is also equally tough working when you are supposed to be enjoying, wasting money. It is tough in all the other ways, so earnestly, that I want to keep going.
Not because I like the rush too much to let go but well, because it is tough to carry on like this and being a workaholic became like a challenge before, I knew.
distortedtales 