A Despair

It’s end of day and I’m pushing away from my desk in my office in my home where I pour my brilliance and energy. Everyday I am revolted that this office is my studio. The place I make art. The place I read poetry. The place I photograph myself trying to have a good time and sometimes actually having a good time. 

Off, I snap the lights. And slam, I pull the swollen door closed to keep the gritty corporate vibes from soaking into my kitchen and living and bathroom.

I wonder, if I stayed in here at night doing my own work, I wouldn’t resent it so much, so immediately need to vacate, so viscerally want to wash myself after leaving.

Even with this complaint, I will never work somewhere that doesn’t allow 100% remote work though. It takes me only 12 steps to get to the shower and wash off the brain-sore apathy. 

12 light footfalls between me furious and me adjusted.

This is point in time when I have a choice, and that choice is either to embrace my rock as a friend/purpose, or the hopeless trap without chance for appeal or escape.

We are Sisyphus, and we are neither happy nor unhappy.