night, or until someone tells me to stop. I’ll measure, and pour, and measure again. Pour, squat down and take in a full visual of the thing I’ve created before passing it off to other tired hands. I’d like to be productive in a way that has more parts. Parts that add up to something more than the equation I’ve left you with. I’m both opposed to this entire ordeal, and sort of, kind of, in awe of it. To be a part of the working machine of the working class of people. I can say this because, perhaps, I’ve let my mind rise above the preconceptions of what this means. If I hadn’t maybe I’d be ashamed or restless.
I’m always restless.
I don’t hate this because of either of these things, only that they’re keeping me from something else. I don’t do this job beautifully in the way some do and I see this. Hell, I’m decent, but I’m no genius in the department of connecting to people over pretty cocktails. At least not ones that I’ve made myself. Anyway, I’m not sure what happens to someone after years of doing a job they don’t care about. Or a life of just getting by. I’m not sure when it happens, after how long, if it’s a particular event, or many wrapped up together. But the wiring of your brain shifts. A common thread connecting you to others that have lived similar experiences interlaces in a way; you’ll no longer see the world through the lens of any hue of red. There’s dimension to this as well. Some will become tired therefore bitter, others will find their joy in simplicity, and the rest will find fire under their
