I had no idea what things she saved me from until I swam inside of it for myself and now I pray I have not defeated her purposes

If I sit still enough and close my eyes no one can see me. Hold. My breath. And avoid stepping on the squeaky floor panels. Don't rustle the covers. Straight. Still. Breathless.

I wait for the break in the endless stream of cars to make a left-hand turn. After the light turns yellow I race the red-light-runner. Wait in my own endless stream of cars. Run my own red light and race the left-turner. "Next on line" bears an elipses and no period becuause there is never just a next. Or next. Or next.

My personality has been pirated from me and the Jolly Roger has come to strangely resemble the dollar sign. All the advice my father gave me to not chase after love and artistry is nodding it's head at me now. Knowingly.

Dad's corporate company went under and I rejoiced that now he could pursue his passion. I even boasted of a respect that I had for him that he was at risk of losing if he didn't change careers. Shuddered. He shuddered when he looked at what he loves. How could he assume a responsibility like that? Years of never taking pride in oneself creates a shudder at what people might think.

He loves long walks on the beach and nights by the fire. He gets a rush from racing the red-light-runner for a left-hand-turn. When he holds his breath, though, and closes his eyes he dissappears too, but he panics.

His personality wasn't pirated, you see, it was offered, by him, freely, in exchange for a 5-disc DVD changer when he only has four DVDs.

I'm hopefull, though, and haven't given up my cockeyed views of doing-what-you-love-regardless-of-status, or my respect for my perspective, or my patience for love to find me.

If I sit still enough and close my eyes no one can see me. Hold. My breath. And avoid stepping on the squeaky floor panels. Don't rustle the covers. Straight. Still. Breathless. I can't laugh, just smile, and slide my hand across yours and know you're smiling too. We'll just slip out of the line. Leave our parked car. Leave the suburbs. Leave the corporate cash-mongers and head-line vomiters. I wash my hands of it. Cut my hair of it. Tattoo my flesh of it. And clear my head. Of it.