The new norm, though many of you who are right now bustling around at your workplace won't ever know what this feels like, is the non-response. It is as if the world has adopted the ultimate dysfunctional method of conveying the obviousness of their reply. Nothing. For those of us trying to move forward and connect, belong and plan for our futures, although our control of it is a moot point in life as we are in the valley of out-of-control and then some, it feels like the claws of something huge has us by the shoulders and is dragging us across the landscape.
Nothingness can feel palpable and it does. How do we explain this to you? As if our hope had become our downfall. Now tell me that isn't so. And yet, it feels as if the minute I have a hope for my future, a brightness in applying for a job that holds the promise of opening up into challenges, rewarding moments, purpose and maybe even riding my bike to work becomes my nemesis.
The trench as wave experts report, on the other side of this freak wave of hope, is immense and dangerous. We shall surf up to the lip of this rogue wave only to find that the other side will drown us for sure. For me, Emily Dickinson may have thought that "Hope is a thing with feathers," but she apparently did not know that thing had claws too.
Ah, the non-response. Being the recipient of a nine-day-old non-response on a whiz-bang proposal I made a couple of Fridays ago, I am with you. And glad you found me, probably via Blogger's Blogs of Note. And I just want to say I love this little piece, and that I first fell in love with greyhounds, but eventually worked my way around to a Boston terrier because I have an aversion to leashes. I get greyhounds, and I'm glad that you're out here, and I plan to read you, too.
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