This is my day job.

This is also my dream job. As in, if you had asked me what I was hoping to do when I was sloughing my way through a double major and four minors in college, I would have neatly packaged a non-existing job description and it would have looked nearly identical to what I spend my days doing now. 

I love doing what I do so much that I keep tacking on more and more of it through freelancing, until, like I wrote in an email this week, "My right brain gets kicked into a shriveled wad."

So that's where I am right now.

The creative part of me, the part that dreams up designs and implements them, the part of me that loves paper and tactile art, the part of me that words fall out of more quickly than I can piece them together—that very big part of me—it's weary.

Especially because as much as I'd like to only work out of my right brain, there are left brained tasks to be done, taxes, administrative work, my email inbox (gah), printing orders, etc.

I've been thinking about Augustine's disordered loves the past few weeks, partly because I know my love is disordered and a mess, but mostly because I cannot solve or resolve anything.

It's not my job. Not even my day job.