The end of an e
I go back to the sacred timeline
It’s the end of an era, colleagues usually say when someone leaves a job after a few years.
‘It’s the end of an era’, a friend said just a few days ago, as my latest job ended.
Except it’s only been nine months since I accepted the post, and not even five months since I actually started.
Nine months between the day I signed up for a job in my favourite city and the day I said ‘au revoir’ to my new colleagues there, to go back to the one that is not my favourite, but that I must finally acknowledge has become my home, the place I feel relaxed in, and the place I will - if nothing major happens to disrupt my plans - live in for the rest of my working life.
So, a short era. An e, let’s say.
It’s a bittersweet feeling.
‘It’s the end of an era’, a friend said just a few days ago, as my latest job ended.
Except it’s only been nine months since I accepted the post, and not even five months since I actually started.
Nine months between the day I signed up for a job in my favourite city and the day I said ‘au revoir’ to my new colleagues there, to go back to the one that is not my favourite, but that I must finally acknowledge has become my home, the place I feel relaxed in, and the place I will - if nothing major happens to disrupt my plans - live in for the rest of my working life.
So, a short era. An e, let’s say.
It’s a bittersweet feeling.