I am in a constant state of confusion these days
about just how so much of the souls on this planet can give themselves to what seems like
At least to me.
There are two types of people it appears, those for whom work is but an ends to a mean,
a way to buy the groceries
and pay the bills
and forget the numbness of meaningless
Then there is the other (half? third? five percent? what useless these things are we call numbers, that quantify instead of
Those lucky few for whom work is not work at all
but a calling.
A love, not a labor;
so it is with equal mind numbing that i search
these posts on virtual pages
with titles all bizarre
these product managers, these financiers
these engineers, these personal assistants.
i do not want to work to live
i want to live to work
to give birth to something of
but the masses have stopped
to the artists and the writers, lost
in the never ending rhythm of