My day is simple, it's a mapped out routine of commonplace tasks. Greet, smile, listen, be strategic, satisfy others' needs. All I'm asked to do is my job, and when I'm done, the sun stares back at me, half used up, yet half willing to encourage me... prompt me to do more.
I am on edge, despite everything working in my favor, despite the sun curving its way into my skin and causing my sincerity to glow.
No reason to feel pressured, but why should there be a reason? Why is one person's emptiness measured by their circumstance?
I bolt for the door without any shoes on. Everyone is tone deaf to the slam, the grunt, the way my breath lets music be dead air. And all the breezes in nature are anticlimactic. All the birds tweeting their lovely goodbyes and all the wildflowers growing despite mankind calling them weeds... they're all just scenery. What purpose do they inspire in me?
Sometimes, it makes me feel like a foreigner.
Because I can't breathe, I'm blocked and I shouldn't be. My lungs don't inherit city smog and my heart does not carry a tragic story. But there is still an uncomfortable weight I carry.
I can't sit back and I can't relax. I should be grateful for the open-ended summer and the tails of opportunity I can chase at daybreak. But I'm not a fox in ambush- I don't have the patience and I don't have the stamina.
