It has been exactly one year since I turned in my resignation, with expectation and fear, to my stooped and broken employer. This man, a wreck of charisma, ambition, paranoia, and dietary oblivion, had been one of a few strong reasons I had stayed, myself an overripe, bored, and mostly useless symbol of past organizational victories. He was, if not a friend, an ally, and I sympathized greatly with him. No one was more honest and yet manipulative; no one could compromise with so much integrity. I had helped him maintain his little empire while I could, but now I was played out, finished. I had done nothing significant in years; for better or worse, I had no plans to improve on this. Besides, nothing was tying me to my work or paycheck: my private life was a tatters ripped out of a shambles. I had seen a photo of myself in an organizational flyer; the horror, what a wreck of charisma, ambition, and… Christ. I took a final meeting in my boss’ office, and we shared a few cigarettes for old times. RIP lungs, RIP career.
I’m sitting today in the same café which was my escape from the office. How the sun shines; was it so cheerful while I labored for someone else? Now, there is no need to hide or retreat: it’s been a year since I had to report to anyone, since I had anything I had to do for anyone at all. Looking back today, it seems brave, maybe, that I left without a parachute, with no job, no insurance, no family to help me, and no real plan, but I’m not very impressed. What I’m concerned about, what seems critical, has not changed: what I hope for, is to leave my mark, to have a life worth living, and further, that it is still to come. Every day is a struggle. I’m neither young nor old; I’m free but completely unimportant. Most bizarrely of all, I‘m playing poker for a living, living and breathing poker so completely it has changed the entire course of my life, and I’m not really sure what to make of any of it.
I’m out of position, and I’m going to tell you all about it.
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