The sandals of my life, I guess, have met the hot summer asphalt of adulthood... all warm and gunky, trapping my shoes, leaving me either stuck there in my melting sandals... or running out and burning the pads off the bottoms of my feet as I search out some kind of shade.
Mixed metaphors and manic hyperbole, as I try to distract myself. But I'm left with no distraction and just a further feeling of non-accomplishment. a further reminder of what the hell I do with my time... brood, write occasionally... work in a job that's obscured in a bureaucratic mess... hoping to win the lotto, I suppose, or impress someone with my writings in some desperate painful hope to extricate myself from this mess... I can feel everything I hold dear slipping, the lines I swore never to cross getting fuzzier
Accuse me of laziness for not thinking that's the answer - compare me to burnouts and cripples and failures for it. But damn if it doesn't sound safe. Safe, stupid, fruitless, and arbitrary, but well-organized and constructed in a fashion where failure and success are easily rendered...
I am wasting my life, I think.
But not in the way that they think I am.
Stuck between hot asphalt and stupid sandals and the sun keeps getting hotter... Standing here for too long just makes me sweat.
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