From a very young age, I’ve abhorred “working” in all its monotonous redundancy.

My mind, never content to stay with me, was always wandering off.

God, there are so many other things I could be doing right now! But no, here I am. Stuck in Staples (yeah, worked there too) for eight hours of putting binders in order everyday!

I am Michael Charles Romeo, goddamnit!!

My talents are not to be wasted in this humdrum hoi polloi 9-to-5 proletariat endeavor! No sir!

I am an artist, an actor, a writer, a filmmaker, a poet and I’ll not be imprisoned like this on a daily basis.

So many opportunities wasted and thrown away. All for some vain sense of self-proclaimed greatness.

After high school it was my sincere intent to travel to Hollywood. Make my fortune there as a famous actor/director and the world will know my name! YES! They will never forget me!

But what was I doing instead?

Not working. Not saving.

Lounging for hours in sunny fields or wandering idly thru graveyards. Sitting atop mountains or gazebos overlooking different counties or four way street corners and lazily watching life unfold in front of me.

A daily deception. I rationalize my ineptitude at keeping a job with the degree of my genius, thoroughly ruining any chance of a working resume’. Creating nothing more than an unpardonable habit of drink and drugs.

At random times I’d jot little notes or sketch partial pictures intended for later use in some grand inspiring tale, only to stuff them away into a miscellaneous folder and leave them lie for years.

I make no films, write half-finished pieces, and draw only the dullest creations. I waste more and more time.

It doesn’t seem a waste though, with the honeybees circling and pollinating a clover patch capturing my attention for hours. Or a robin hunting in the shade of creaking tree among the gravestones while a breeze tickles the leaves above. It’s tranquility I feel.

Not the overwhelming press and rush of mankind to garner green paper.

But as I look around, everything else is doing its job.

“What do you do all day?” Lori asked once, a little jealous by her tone.

“Nothing.” I shrug. “I don’t know. Whatever I want. I walk a lot.”

In the back of my mind I know a day will come when I’ll need my own means of support.

I know my parents are thoroughly disgusted and disappointed with me.

I feel this growing conflict raging inside and can’t decide which way to turn.

The luxurious freedom of creativity jockeys with the life of stable responsibility for dominance.

So many jobs walked out of regardless of the distance home. Whether or not I had a car. The remainder of the day was spent walking and by the time I reached my destination I always felt another regret blooming.

Now as I age, the plant threatens to engulf me and I have to trim it back daily. I hoped working at the carpet store would change all that.

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There’s another world out there,

and I need it so much.

This paperclip holding my soul together,

is old and rusted.

And I’m not allowed in Staples anymore.