I am getting better at my job. This bothers me. Why? Because as I get better at it, I find it more enjoyable or at the least more tolerable. I find that the compliments paid to me there, the kind that normally would not have registered, they are resonating more. I am afraid that I will start to enjoy my job. I will spend more time thinking about my job, perhaps even when I am not there. Time that I used to spend on my art. And when this happens who will I be? I know who I have strived to be my entire life. I have strived to be an amalgamation of my heroes Salvador Dali and Mark Twain.
The bus was always so tight before. But since I started enjoying my work, the commute is not so constricting. This should be a good thing, no? Suddenly it seems that no matter how many people are on the train or the bus, I am always able to find a seat. I look around to see if Mephistopheles is there bargaining for me to get that little luxury, but instead I see quiet faces solitary serene. I think my eyes must be getting smaller, must be rolling slowly back into my head. Even the bus driver seems like he is further away when I step on the bus. A soft fur lined tunnel? Perhaps?
I was in the lunch room, reading a book I had found placed on top of the vending machine, it was a bodice busting romance novel the sort where I need not worry about the proper names, always a he and a she doing all sorts of arousing things to one another. No names, just verbs and environments. A man walked in with some important papers. I knew they were important because the company's high priority stamp was apparent at the bottom and top of each page. A fist sized stamp in dark crimson colored ink.
-What are you reading?
-Just a silly thing
I didn't want to show him the cover
-Can I see?
-I just started it, you know for a laugh
He just sort of stands there. He isn't waiting for me to answer. He isn't staring coldly into space. He is just sort of paused. He then looks at the palm of his right hand. He takes the edge of the high priority papers and places it edge wise against the tiny soft web between his index and middle finger.
-Do you dare me?
-What are you doing?
-Just trying to stay awake
He walked away. I keep feeling that high priority paper slicing tiny incisions in between my fingers and toes. I red a poem and ask myself if this is it? Is this the last poem I'll relish? Is this the last profound thought I'll ever have? Will I abandon even the bodice buster for a coloring book instead?