Forced. Change.

An uncomfortable joke hilariously funny only to the teller,
told to a small crowd who respond with dead silence.
Averted eyes towards each other and away from you.
Someone changes the subject and is met with quick agreeance.
The message is clear:
"Don't. Go. Further."

Is it this way, or that?
What must one do first to check?

Beginning the thought again, only to run into
a blank wall that makes you spill the first
portion onto it,
dissolving whatever it was
as if it were invisible ink dripping,
before its completion.
You hope to soak it up somehow,
perhaps through osmosis, so you can discover
its properties, the secret of the elixir,
but you forgot
where the wall was-you are in a labyrinth of changing invisible
walls with different textures.
You can only feel through
touching, before the searing-white
burn of one has you switch,
and you know that any thoughts that hit it
must have dehydrogenated and solidified
bonded upon the surface on impact.
"When did it...how do I..."
The thoughts are now useless to you,
even if you manage to burn yourself finding
it.
Again.
Find something else.
Try again.
Only you are broken by it, never it;
so you must orient yourself--these are
immutable elements.
You can not come close to what was once yours now.
Change yourself or be crushed.
"But it is impossible to change one's self!" You cry.
Then I suppose it comes down to which one is tougher to occupy this space.
Because you can not both co-exist--you had better hope
your thoughts were good enough to begin with,
and insusceptible to these temperatures.

One can only thoughtlessly call to find the wall that will mold to you upon touch!
Know that if your calling does not materialize it, you will not find it, and you have no hope of either or.
It will either be or it will not.
You will either be fulfilled. Or you will not.
This is what you learn.

An interrupted sentence,
verdict abruptly given,
ushered out the door before
reading the question mark
in the upturned brows on the
deliverer's face.

The man had spent grinding, repetitive, senseless mundane
tasks for alleviation,
the stress scratching at him,
gaming, as a way to think about it.
How to ask for the raise?
Just starting to think but being (not just feeling, but being)
frustrated,
turning into weeks,
perhaps a subconscious set of months
planning it. To be turned away in one
quick.
Jolting.
Coldness.

One begins speaking and notices that the smiles do not match
their eyes.
Pivotal turns met with absolute
barring.
Not that way.
Nor that.
Relax, breathe deeply, and find your center.
Only then can one move.

Red octoganal signs dissolve,
the moving side-walk escalators in front of you
are tempting to step upon, only because this sign
reminds you of a children's nursery rhyme,
and you labor to lift your feet up and over, feeling
an invisible catch begging to trip you:
"Don't. Stand! Between! the Cracks!"
You laugh and ask yourself, "Why not?" and "How silly!"
and are angered by the idea that you can not change the
bombardment of thought from entering.
You are pissed at the Brother's Grimm.
You decide instead to learn from it--
is there anything good, not distractable but worthy in this world, truly,
to teach to children?
And in the back of your mind, you scold yourself for this even
and tell yourself to not say "God damn it",
but to sigh and say, "God bless it", lest this
invisible karma not bless you.

Watching nature and its constant changing motion
calls to you like an act of public oddity slyly asking you to do it
and buck the system, join the carcophony
of birds,
their cheerful whistling and darting maddeningly
your own desire.

You can, but you see the path it will lead you down and know that today (and perhaps never in regards to the eternal now),
that you can not.

No Dead Lines for you...not on a heart monitor, not from
a boss, not from a member of a family. There is no time.
You wish the rest of the world acknowledged it.
It is an insane human population--the birds don't care who sees them
play, to sing, to dance and they do it whenever they want, anyway.
This is your one true desire. To live freely, happily,
and to not be caged for it.

You find your shoes are suddenly metal,
permanent,
superconducting, pulsed magnets,
from your shoes, to your feet, to your
core, through each hair.
Pop it up, scoot the foot over, pull it down.
Oh so cool.
It is a oneness, you and the metal.
You are one with your destination.
It directs you and you accept.
You can go anywhere as long as you accept each
destination, but you can't even accept, can't
even realize that you can't accept,
because you are frozen.
The moving is in your mind.
Without such freedoms,
something as trite as motion.
Only then, when you realize that you do not need it,
in this paradoxical world, can one continue.