I trudge to work anticipating all the ruckus left hanging over the weekend. I know that I will not go home early (like I ever did). I know that whatever goes wrong, it is default that the fault is mine. I know that I cannot weasel out of that fault, because I am not a supervisor, nor am I an ideas-factory.

These are the times when you forget yourself. Not in the spirit of selflessness, not of the choice to be unselfish... of not thinking of yourself... but of forgetting who you are. Because of all the selves people deem you to be, need you to be, want you to be. I am a poet, I am an artist. In my soul I want to create, to give birth to the outpouring of feelings; made into a reality that is not true, made into fantasies that are not false. In my soul I wish to dwell. And my soul I deeply miss... being with. And as to when we shall dwell again, I do not know. Then, they will know that I am a poet, an artist. And I will know who I am.

But for now I am not me. Default settings don't set me that way.