Work = Bliss?

I can safely say that today has been one of THE most productive days I've had at work in the past 3 months. Since about 9 am I've not even been online (except to log in to the uni system) and instead have been cutting through the piles of answer booklets on my desk like a hot knife through butter. Right now, a few smidgens away from 7.30 pm, I'm tired as hell but relieved at the thought that there's a few more stacks waiting to be done tonight.

You think I'm mad? Perhaps. All I can say is at this moment, my biggest fear will be of running out of things to do once I'm done with this lot. Things didn't use to be this way. I used to dread any form of hard work. I'd once thought that it was one of the many ways God manages to make us humans punish ourselves (a small voice in my head interrupts, saying it still thinks that way). Fast forward a couple years and I seriously think that it's probably the second life saver I've discovered after blogging. Heck, thinking about it, I think it's the first...

(Flashback)

The year was 1999. Nearing the end of my final semester at uni, I was struggling to finish my degree thesis/project. Normally, this would not pose a problem. However (as I am now accustomed to) I was reeling after an especially terrible breakup. And I mean really terrible: family hysterics, threats, the whole shebang (full story one of these days, perhaps). My housemates were sympathetic, but they were busy with their work and their love lives as well (most of them are married or will be at the time of writing). So that left little ol' me at home alone most of the time. I weighed my options: I could molder in my defeat, or I could pour out my frustration into my thesis.

No points for guessing which one I chose. I worked on it like a madman, drawing/animating/recording/editing/typing half the day away, with breaks only for lunch and supper. At night I'd go on until the early hours of the morning, after which I'd finally slump on the mattress I had handy on the floor. Around noon, I'd wake up and the cycle would continue. It worked, though. The days passed by in a blur and I hardly had time to think about the hurt or that feeling of loss. I managed to complete the project in time and presented it barely awake. No, the hard work didn't really pay off, but I survived.

(End Flashback)

Thinking about it now, I realise I withdraw into my job the moment I feel something's bothering me. The thought of having nothing to do scares me like nothing else can. I actually space out my duties to the extent of making sure I'll always have something to do near the deadline, because that's when I do some of best work, under pressure. There is an insane feeling of delight, of aliveness (if there is such a word) and of purpose whenever I'm racing to draft proposals, write lecture material, schedule student evaluations. Purpose. Perhaps that's it.

The Ox can't live without one. He needs an ideal, he needs something to work for. Without it he withers and dries up. So until he finds something better, he'll happily enslave himself to this job, hoping to make a difference while at the same time riding the wave to the next deadline.

And the next one after that.