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Both of these can lead to death.
—from a prescription drug ad seen while streaming Paramount Plus
Inactivity. Stagnation. Malaise.
Is this what it comes to? Is this
who I’ve become? It is not me,
it is not me, a thousand times
again it is not me, I want to
shout. I hear the echoes of
my imaginary noise in this
very real prison. But then
I take off my tie, I bolt from
the doors, running out the gate,
and all this while it turns out I am
home, deliberating, cooking, sure,
making lists, tidying up, killing vermin,
I’ve become a lazy murderer, this is how
I will be known. Does this delight my senses?
Momentarily, perhaps. Such rumination is for
the birds. For the cows and the birds and the
pigs. I would almost beg the god of legacy to
let be known for action rather than inaction.
What I have done, am doing and will do.
Not all the unchecked items on my infinite
to do lists. What I do is who I am. Which,
for now, is a rat in a cage, trying like hell
to gnaw and claw his way out or at least
to beat the rolling treadmill. And, still,
thank goodness, a dreamer and a poet.
The treadmill never stops. But I do need
a bit of exercise. Who am I again?
—from a prescription drug ad seen while streaming Paramount Plus
Inactivity. Stagnation. Malaise.
Is this what it comes to? Is this
who I’ve become? It is not me,
it is not me, a thousand times
again it is not me, I want to
shout. I hear the echoes of
my imaginary noise in this
very real prison. But then
I take off my tie, I bolt from
the doors, running out the gate,
and all this while it turns out I am
home, deliberating, cooking, sure,
making lists, tidying up, killing vermin,
I’ve become a lazy murderer, this is how
I will be known. Does this delight my senses?
Momentarily, perhaps. Such rumination is for
the birds. For the cows and the birds and the
pigs. I would almost beg the god of legacy to
let be known for action rather than inaction.
What I have done, am doing and will do.
Not all the unchecked items on my infinite
to do lists. What I do is who I am. Which,
for now, is a rat in a cage, trying like hell
to gnaw and claw his way out or at least
to beat the rolling treadmill. And, still,
thank goodness, a dreamer and a poet.
The treadmill never stops. But I do need
a bit of exercise. Who am I again?
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