It feels like there’s no room left for poetry in my life these days. I’ve been living too long as a responsible adult — working long hours, paying my bills on time, and falling asleep earlier than I often plan to because I’m just so damned tired most nights of the week. The potential for poetry in my life has been greatly marginalized by the soul-sucking rut of the middle class survival game. All I do is work, eat, sleep when I can, and lament the shortness of my weekends. Color me disenchanted.
You know what counts as poetry in my life these days? Poetry is a concise, perfectly crafted e-mail message sent to my office inbox, free of grammatical errors and irritating ambiguities that require follow-ups and clarification. Poetry is a properly balanced petty cash report which requires little else of my attention aside from my approval signature. Poetry is drafting a monthly financial status report, and not having any variances or major discrepancies to explain by the time I’m through with it. Poetry is uninterrupted workflow, free of surprises and comfortably mundane.
My world is looking a little gray and blah these days, but what else is new? I’ve been trying to shake the same case of blahs all year long. Something needs to change. I don’t exactly know what I’m looking for anymore. I just know something’s missing. Maybe I should just place my trust in Paintball to lead me out of this forest of blahs.
Meh, I say. M-to-the-eh.
You too, huh? If it’s any consolation, we do eventually die. Ok, I’ll go now.
Haha nice. Your comments are always the funniest, Nicky.