On Youth

I arrange my computer on the table in that corner window, spend my day staring into the neighbors' townhouse. Work streams out of the screen, I feel my eyes turn inside out as I forget to get up, forget to eat, forget to break. Youtube unwinds its playlist, and I lose myself in lyrical twists and turns, as I translate complicated geological statements about lava composition.

Later, I sort through the days progress, I find a document that was not there before. In the midst of interpreting someone else's words, somehow my own had snuck in to the soup.

What good is my life, if I do not put words to it? What use was all the anguish, if nothing more came out of it than this complacent heap? How do I get my cookie, eat it, and purge its evils out of my gut? What good, is my life, without words?