is not an emotion.
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.
