I walked through the the same set
of double doors, arrived at the same place
I do every morning at 8am.
Why would I expect something different today?
Like a cut that bleeds, work is no merry-go-round,
no game of craps. It bleeds; no variety,
no random outcome. It is acceptance and
acquiescence to a law and order that makes no sense
except to the ones who live it, count on it,
hide scared behind it. And disappointment arrives
when you realize they're not watching the good
you can do, but the bad you have done.
And bad is subjective, good is subjective,
and the day-to-day is survival despite it.
It's continuing to not strive, become, achieve.
It's finding comfort in necessary mediocrity,
a very early plateau with little to no change
in the flat line on your life graph.
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