it is an act,

a chosen path parallel to 

life itself.

powerless to my reflexes,

mine depends on very basic circumstantial sums:

the number that 

shows up on the floor of the bathroom in the morning

indicating my successes and failures in regards to

discipline.

the number of 

meaningful interactions, whether personal or technological

furthering the theory that i will never be happy

alone.

the number of 

mundane, routine-fulfilling actions that must inevitably take place

establishing the notion that I am, in fact, an

adult.

the numbers that 

show up out of the dust

adding up to equal enough money for a 

future.

the number of 

unbecoming permanent messes-spoken, thought, and done-

leaving nothing but a little room for 

regret.

the numbers printed on

 a long white sheet of paper at the end of a long night

measuring my attention to detail, my pleasantness, and my ability to 

serve.

Stuck,

(in a cycle

of equations that never factor out)

happiness has yet add up.