The official "am I hired or am I fucked" interview is Monday afternoon but Mr. Directeur G�n�ral of Planaxis was already counting dollar signs (or Euro signs, rather) yesterday.
I picked up a newspaper on my way home, along with a $5 bottle of St-Emillion (better than anything I'd paid over $45 for in Montr�al), some unpasteurized everything, some fresh salmon, fresher bread, and handmade butter, yaourt (yogourt) and coffee that is still in my nostrils.
I looked at the appartment ads, furniture ads, car ads, motorcycle ads.
I looked at martial arts schools, irish pubs, music lessons.
Stuff that's been part of my plan for the next year, I've started thinking about it again.
I'm beginning to memorize the streets of the freak neighbourhood, the charming man in the used bookstore called me out of the square and suggested a new book to me.
I guess what I'm getting at is comfort...
The terror is ebbing, some of it with the ebbing stress of finding work (though I am still far from sure), some of it with the pangs that no matter the state of my heart, will never last in the face of a sunrise.
My dreams are no longer of pain, of tears, they're turning to wonderful moments and memories. Sometimes I catch myself hoping that it'll be all over in a year, and I just have to survive like I said I would, learn the things I swore I would, grow up a little more (the beast inside me knows I need it and that this was the real reason I left) and spend a year to make the rest of my life more spectacular.
Thoreau went to the woods, I went in the opposite direction -- to the biggest city I know of, but we went for the same reason.
To force ourselves to strive.