I can’t pinpoint the exact moment that my life became
a monotonous mess of To Do list objectives and
recycling bin runs. Every day, I fill the humidifier
and aromatherapy diffusers like they’re an alternative
life support, to keep me on track while I frantically try
to make all of the railway stops I promised to reach
that day. I’ve become a tumbleweed, just somersaulting
through the routine. Meanwhile work life and home life
are starting to blend together like pavement chalks under
heavy rain. No picture-perfect calendar goal to paste to
the insides of my eyelids, for when I dream. Dreams are
for children, who have no stops to make. They haven’t
learned the rhythm dance that has people stepping in
sync like Irish soldier automatons. While the
young blood flails about, jumping and giggling
with glee, the rest of us look on with envy,
always ready for when some unseen choreographer
chants from offstage “a five, six, seven, eight…”
