I love my work
Nine o’clock on a Saturday night. I’m in a deserted house, I ate once today, I never made it out of my jammies, I’ve got Cake on repeat, and I’m working hard on history and logic and the foundations of evolutionary biology and I couldn’t be happier. Anyone who scoffs hasn’t really lived. Epitomes come in all kinds, and are as camouflaged by mundane particulars as anything else. Here I feel myself joining the ranks of thinkers in my field - as someone who, despite the dismissable facts of being a certain way at any given time, has a tremendous amount to say, and the only way of distinguishing my worth as an intellectual as compared to other intellectuals is the strings of words under my name. I rise or fall based on the content of my mind - its subject matter, how I conceive of it and organize it, how I communicate it, and all the implicit choices therein. Some say, "You aren’t your work." No, there’s more to me than that. But it can capture the essence of who I am, for, in a sense, my work is me because it is mine.
"Adjectives on the typewriter
He moves his words like a prize fighter.
The frenzied pace of the mind inside the cell."
"Say it all, say it all."
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