I hate my job. I hate having a job. I hate having a job that has absolutely nothing to do with the person I am. I hate having to explain that to coworkers who’ve bought into the whole idea of the American dream. One that I don’t ascribe to because it doesn’t exist in my world. Never has.
Even as a child I never believed the hype. School, work, house, car…The order is of your choosing. Success in these areas meant good fortune for life. A pauper’s existence seems to be my plight. I’ve spent a century living in and out of boxes. Trying to avoid the mold.
Not because I desire no responsibility. I have no desire for your responsibility. There are enough cookie cutters to go around. And plenty of dough. You fake it. Then make it. So you have something to show. To whom? And for what?
God made me free. Although I’ve yet to experience such a state. But have managed to live in several. Turning my pockets inside out. Finding more lint than loose change. My heart always heavy. Panicky sleep. It is the life I’ve sown. No reap. My harvest lies in the stories that I keep. Not a time sheet.
Beautiful dreamers, not of this world. Put your lighters in the air. Know there’s no sky up there. Let your edges burn. Resigned to no one’s existence. ‘Cept your own.