...

I've officially been working the same dead end job for three years now. If there isn't an Obscure Sorrows word for this feeling then there should be one.

Am I wasting away my life? It's hard to say. It seems like a matter of philosophy whether or not having crayon on the floor is a matter of importance. Either way, removing it seems to be one of my duties. I think about that a lot. A subjective philosophy expressed through a physical and visual medium... isn't that just being paid to make art? Each time I mop a room it's like a shiny sand mandala that's meant to evaporate into the air and leave a floor that couldn't possibly be entirely free of crayon. I'm visually expressing my philosophy that I know it's an impossible pursuit but I do it anyways because it's kinda fun to scrub sometimes.

I sometimes think about a house painter, someone hired to paint solid color matte walls with as little imperfections as possible. They find meaning in what they do, they know that perfection is impossible but they're a little curious to see how they fail each time. It's not that they try to fail, it's just that failure is guaranteed. Someone who fails gracefully I guess... Anyways, I imagine that painter's work. Is it possible it could be affecting to anybody except the artist who made it? It feels like the painter would have to be known about in a way that makes Death of The Author impossible. Might as well try anyways, am I right?