gun, head

An afternoon twitches by, I barely notice.

Yet, the entire waking day for play crawls along inside the sweaty kitchen of my paid labor, That this is a job, not my work, is the distinction I make to fellow employees. They don't understand the difference, so drop the topic.

With every fiber of my mental tenacity focused to persist for eight hours, with bare hands burning carved carcasses and bitch face arresting the excited passion of coworkers, I'm left with nothing to share but my honest desperation that I need fundamental resources more than I need to live my life according to my self-determined morality. And I feel every minute. Time drenches awareness, a self-conscious torture of one thousand mental paper cuts.

Freedom does not amaze. It does not come packaged in spectacular colors. The most basic act of existing, I rarely even notice.