An island washed in sunshine, I turn my head and squint as I walk down the promenade. The calm of a holiday eve, of the deep breath before a tinseled madness, you let the joy build in your heart in the silence. Spend fifteen hours a day working to close up shop in time, how far you’ve come, how deeply entrenched in the rat race.
You still believe you can get out.
There’s a current along your spine, built from decades of contrarian influence, from generations of firestarters, that says stepping off is easy as scratching an itch, that says when everything burns you can build from scratch.
The years pass, they mold you and knead you into unfamiliar shapes,
but you don’t have to listen to them
if you don’t want.
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