Trying to figure out so many things and in the process seem to be figuring out nothing. I know that I need money, filthy lucre. I am not afraid to work hard for my money but I cannot sit in a drone office center surrounded by safety glass and bunch of fat cats and average Joes and be misunderstood at every turn. I did that for years. The corporate ladder may be climbed without me, I will be climbing mountains and not even caring that I may never make it to the peak. But still I have to live, so where is that balance and I why do I find it so difficult to locate?
I am inspired by people at every turn. I am their muse in exchange. But when it comes to being my own muse, of late, I am artless.
And now I am stifling, I am drowning in my own hot blood and crawling out of my tanned hide and longing, longing, longing--something wants to be born, but I am not sure what.
I hated retail, but felt its when I did my best writing.
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