Baby Toes

Nothing is of child’s dream. Thru the night, rotating doors, unmoored.

Instead, I am God knows where (Los Angeles), in an office with no windows, appeasing bitter adults–baby toes rubbed raw. I am tethered to nothingness. I can see where I want to go, but I’m bogged down by the mud of life. Always a new wave pushing my shoreline back. My latest excuse: a mild concussion.

My boss asked me why I was still working, but she also is unaware of the cost of housing, of living, in God knows where. Earnestly, she asked, “How do you afford that?” as the scheduling manager for 95 people. As the manager who relieves her personal feelings with pettiness.

I haven’t seen the boy outside of work in three weeks. I think it’s just circumstantial, but it makes me feel like I am more interested in him than I am worth to him. I would rather go sleepless, and he would rather attain routine.

I have started getting overwhelmed at concerts, rushing out of tight, central views for the relief of fresh air. I don’t feel shows when I’m in the back. What is the point if I can’t feel it?

That’s how I got a concussion.

I think I’m already on the middle ground, and I don’t want to be here. Middle ground is stagnation, and politically, I believe in progress even if there’s error on the path.