“There is plenty of ground beneath rock bottom,” who
said that? I did, when I was 17 and drunk on life and a slew of thoughts that
got me floored at my worst hours.
I’m 25 now and the only inspiration to get me out of
bed is really bad coffee at office and it took me 10 minutes to come up with
that.
Is that what it is? The price of not being exceptional?
The price of hanging in there? How about a nice big cup of stupid instead?
I’ve been through what you’d call a hazy few months: A
whiff of controversy. Imagined scandal. Testosterone. Don’t get me started on
feminism. Well earned arrogance at the end of the day. The price of being professional.
11 am: I skim through my laundry list of clients. This
is how we operate, stock prices swell up, and data spills over. Coffee cups
pile up. Breakfast bars are a thing.
Lunch is peaceful. Finally, there is some wind in my
hair.
Sometimes I read up on oil and sustainability, look up
Latin words, Reuters, China, Pfizer.
I make a mealy mess forking deals. Sometimes I clean
up. Sometimes I am told that I am being played. Weird men you know, like to
start their days with quotes.
Have I lost my mojo? Does the pleasure of drinking wine
at 8 pm in the perfect glass outweigh events that led me to ask myself that
question?
On Saturdays I drag my working class ass to the park, sometimes
I scribble. Scraps of paper do it for me like fancy notebooks never could or
would.
You have to realize that I am a straight shooter and
that I won’t shut up.
I am such a dog waiting to grow wild,
I am holding my breath, watching the sun
I am dreaming of all the mistakes I’ve made
I am sick of his gold rimmed notebooks and his copybook
charm
I am trying to stretch my imagination of this city.
I am trying to be gone, I am minding the gaps
I am trying to reach out, I am hanging on by a thread.
