Sure, I like 8701 but I live a kaleidoscope dream. It’s beautiful. It’s a nightmare. It’s everything in between. Endless... continuous... fighting, and I can’t tell if I’m winning. I’m just way more experienced than the ones I’ve been hitting.
I’m circling the block, counting all the squares, building oval offices with comfortable chairs... less hot seats and a lot less Demarcus Wares, thanking Jesus for more answered prayers.
When they’re too defensive to stay attentive I push it to a new no limit... soldiers... lieutenants... anyone can get it. This week I had another co-worker cry on my shoulder, she was almost twice my age but I keep sounding older. There’s more socio-emotional turnover in ideological showers and growers, where personalities get high and mighty but character remains radically sober.
Okay, do-over.
Subtly but suddenly, I’m vindicated and devastated at the same time, recovering senses that I didn’t know were mine to grasp ladders I wasn’t supposed to climb. It’s hard to define, the expression of empty empathy for those you’re destined to leave behind... the inability to give sight to the blind, anticipating someone’s abrupt decline. It stays in my mind as I high-step down the sideline, it was just last week when they were trying to cut my playing time.
Still, there’s much more love lost between me and my maharanees. They used to steal my heart out of pure curiosity, now they don’t want any dirty part of me. My twists of fate never allow me to stay tight with loose women, but it always feels like a fairytale in the beginning.
Tonight, I write like tomorrow will be my last memory, such are the memoirs of a visionary.