FOMO

I’ve had a decent run at doing nothing last season. Not so much this one. As I’m boarding a plane for my fourth business trip this month, there’s epiphany striking hard: I’m falling down the rabbit hole fast again.

Longing for an adventure calls for an easy fix — and then one’s hugging the pillow at 3 AM, just to go places. Does that make any sense? An empty, cold suite someplace far, is this what one wants? Dying alone ain’t ever going to be fashionable.

It’s a drag.

This week, I fell asleep twice during presentations I attended, a clear manifestation of my drive and ability. I don’t give much fuck, but I’m a junkie and edging is my favourite sport.

Listening to Air or Pink Floyd, spending time walking around and in a gym; it’s like early noughties, sans illicit drugs, late-night escapades and chasing chicks.

Sipping a coffee, this black viagra of business, to keep me going. Got a promotion of sorts and I’m dragging myself through more airports now, trying to remember more names and make an impact on a larger scale.

I guess that’s the nice part — when I see they want me to come and change things. When they ask me to step in. When they trust I’m helping.

I have to learn to see myself that way.

Right, right, just I need a bed first.