—from a prescription drug ad seen while streaming Paramount Plus
Inactivity. Stagnation. Malaise.
Is this what it comes to? Is this
who I’ve become? It is not me,
it is not me, a thousand times
again it is not me, I want to
shout. I hear the echoes of
my imaginary noise in this
very real prison. But then
I take off my tie, I bolt from
the doors, running out the gate,
and all this while it turns out I am
home, deliberating, cooking, sure,
making lists, tidying up, killing vermin.
I’ve become a lazy murderer, this is how
I will be known? Does this delight my senses?
Momentarily, perhaps. Such rumination is for
the birds. For the cows and the birds and the
pigs. I would almost beg the god of legacy to
let me be known for action rather than inaction.
What I have done, what I am doing and what I
will do? Not all the unchecked items on my in
finite to do lists. What I do is who I am. Which,
for now, is a rat in a cage, trying like hell
to gnaw and claw his way out, or at least to
beat the rolling treadmill. And yet I remain,
thank goodness, a dreamer and a poet.
for now, is a rat in a cage, trying like hell
to gnaw and claw his way out, or at least to
beat the rolling treadmill. And yet I remain,
thank goodness, a dreamer and a poet.
Thank goodness? The treadmill never stops.
But I do need a bit of exercise.
Who am I again?
