Workweek

What do you call the whisper of a daydream,

The hollow reverberation of sound passing between your ears?

What diversions will you allow when the calls cease,

When the emails stop coming?

 

We listen for the sounds of distraction,

The vibration of a cellphone or quiet knock of a friend on the office door.

We perk up, drop our pens and stop our working clocks,

Open the latest Snapchats, texts, and Tinder messages.

We scroll and click through content,

Let our eyes glaze over in boredom,

Our brains overused and underappreciated,

Running the clock from nine to five so we can go home.

Complain, sleep, repeat.

 

We put ourselves “out there,” hoping things will get better.

We use alcohol soaked bandages to stop the slow bleed of our lives, and

Pray we don’t run out of time.

Not before we find the answers to our questions,

Beg the universe for a sign, and

The deaf Gods’ intervention.

We tell ourselves we’re trying, but we’re not.

We’re slowly dying, rotting away from neglected dreams;

We’re living on the exhaust fumes of hope.

 

“Forge your own path.” “Write your own story.” “Chase your dreams.”

 

“Be practical.” “Pay your bills.” “Work hard.”

 

Our dream is to understand, to know with certainty.

We want to learn, to travel, to write and share.

But first we must pay the price.

Knowledge is free – with a library card! – but wings cost money,

Figurative sums made of binary ones and zeroes strong enough to chain us down and

We hate them, hate them, hate them,

But we want them all the same.

 

‘Cause if we’re here then at least we’re safe,

Putting pressure on the wound,

Ignoring the empty pits in our stomachs and the hunger in our souls.

Small distractions, like shiny toys to a child,

We hope maybe that will be enough, but it’s not and we know it.

When will we ever be brave enough to show it?

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