sad city

George Orwell is ruining my life. I just finished "Down and Out in Paris and London" and he had some pretty awful things to say about the restaurant industry. He refers to a chefs work as such:

"He earns his bread in the sweat of his brow, but it
does not follow that he is doing anything useful; he may be only supplying
a luxury which, very often, is not a luxury. "

Years ago I think I had a much more idealistic view of the future; Even when I was a kid my endeavors were limitless: I wanted to save the world, do a little good for mankind. Somewhere down that line I decided that I just wanted to co-exist - and now I feel so disappointed in myself. I love what I do, but is my work really useless? Would my occupation feel unsatisfying? I keep asking myself these questions and feeling so confused. I know it's not because I don't love what I do, it's just that I'm terrified of having to get a real job and grow up. Maybe I just keep thinking "what am I doing with my life?" because I want more.

In happier, less distressing news: I painted this week for the first time in months. Despite my abuse of the talent, it still felt natural. And it felt so good to create.