Sitting in my Corner of the World Looking Out

There's no jobs labelled in neat letters that fit me,

Cubicles looming like white narrow teeth from dreams half remembered and visits to buildings so tall I wished to dangle my feet off the ledges to see them silhouetted against the skyline

You can't walk into a job fair, not nearly as merry as the name implies, and say I want to COMMUNICATE. I want to split my mind open for all to see, and peer into others

 I want to speak to that little girl in the small village, the one who has never seen anyone who has skin like mine, and I want to tell her all my secrets and hear hers.

 I want to write, and have it evolve like a living breathing beast as others add to me story.

 I want to take the fragmented words of a broken bodied vigilante and help others to be there for his most prized moments.

I want to create and learn and be created.

I don't know, yet, what this dream job, the ONE job, will be. 

 I know it will take me like a piece of clay and mold me, turn me from materials to art the way the best people in the world are transformed. 

I know to get there I need to transform myself; I need to soak up knowledge like I've lived in a barren desert of information, and reach out to others like vines.

I know too, that it may not exist. I may be the first, or I may have to bend myself a bit, fall into something that's a close fit. 

And maybe I won't find it right away, I know only my small corner of the great world, so until then I'll take bits and pieces, the offered edges and sharp corners, and be content with that. 


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