A Day of Searching, A Life of Wondering

A Day of Searching, A Life of Wondering

Today began the same way it ended — with my eyes glued to a screen, scrolling through endless lists of jobs that all seemed just out of reach. Indeed, LinkedIn, Handshake, ZipRecruiter — I made the rounds like a restless traveler wandering through cities that never wanted me. Each job posting read like a locked door. Requirements stacked like brick walls, “must-have” experiences I never got the chance to earn.

I woke up telling myself today will be the day I find something, but by noon, I was already feeling that quiet ache in my chest — the one that whispers, you’re still not enough. I applied to what I could, even when I knew the competition was heavier, more qualified, more certain. I couldn’t shake the thought: I wish I had a talent. One clear, sharp skill that I could wield like a blade against the uncertainty of life. Something that could earn me not just money, but stability — the kind of stability my family deserves.

Because that’s what this all comes down to. I’m not looking for a job just for me. I’m looking because I want to keep the lights on, keep food on the table, keep that thin thread of hope from snapping. I want to carry my family through this storm, even if my own arms are tired.

But between those job searches, my mind drifted. It always does. I found myself daydreaming about immortality — not the glossy, romantic kind from movies, but something quieter, almost sacred. The thought of never running out of time feels intoxicating. If I were immortal, I could learn everything. Every skill, every craft, every language, every hidden truth of the universe. I could master music, medicine, astronomy, philosophy. I could stand at the edge of history and watch it unfold without fear of running out of years.

Mortality makes life feel like a race against a clock you can’t see, only hear ticking faintly in the background. Immortality would turn that clock to dust. Time would stop being a shadow chasing me. It would be nothing but an old, forgotten concept. I could take centuries to learn something without pressure, decades to build something beautiful, years to right every mistake I’ve ever made.

I imagine myself as an eternal student, walking through the ruins and wonders of different ages, collecting knowledge like seashells. No deadlines. No rejections. No job boards filled with “experience required” notices. Just infinite days to become everything I’ve ever wanted to be.

But instead, here I am — human, finite, sitting in front of a glowing screen with a resume that feels too small for the dreams I carry. My day was nothing but job listings, applications, and the quiet hum of my own thoughts filling in the spaces between.

Maybe tomorrow will be different. Or maybe it won’t. But tonight, I’ll let myself slip back into that dream where time is mine to spend forever, and possibility stretches on without end.