I am told that my passion for the work can be felt through the screen by someone on the other end. I wonder if they don’t mean what they say, or if the smile behind the pixels on their screen is enough to conceal my blissful detachment from what any of this means. they ask questions with big words like parameters and frameworks and internal compliance. I nod when I should without knowing the answers. it’s enough and they buy my performance of feigned understanding and care for the bucket of checklists and forms that I’ve rolled up the hill. I log off and laugh in the face of the fact that tomorrow I’ll wake to the same bucket spilt at the foot of the hill.
hairs and habits grow and the little control I have over the latter only shrinks the deeper I slip into unwanted rhythms of being. I look at my screen and think I only ever bore myself or wish I could disappear. today I used ‘thus’ in a conversation and wanted to flush myself down the drain. tomorrow I’ll do the same without realising. remember when I didn’t know how to talk and all I did was cry? neither do I. how did I think and feel before I this was new? when do I forget who and how I was before? I entertain the thought of a tiny ribbon of possibility that any of this matters. I open the door and my lungs and my mind and it’s all the same tomorrow.
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