I quit my job on Monday.
Actually, I quit on Friday last, but I turned in my letter of resignation on Monday.
It felt wonderful.
I only have a couple of weeks left at the place where I've been employed for the last 6 years, 3 months and 14 days. In a mere 15 days, I will no longer be a cog in the wheel of the machine that is the Scarlet Letter. Perhaps it hasn't settled in yet. Perhaps I really am just overjoyed to no longer have to go to work there after the end of this month. I thought that I would feel more sadness, more remorse. All I feel is weight of a Sisyhean task being lifted from my shoulders - getting up day after day to push myself to do something I am no longer interested in doing for people who no longer inspire me to do the job I know I can do.
I want to do something more. Not, like, rich-and-famous, putting-my-business-in-the-streets more. Like, learning-something-new-everyday, engaging-my-brain, putting-something-out-into-the-Universe-that-means-something more.
You know... more.