Poetry

That May Be, 2 (123.)

It may be true that I
had to redefine work the other day.
It may be that I had locked myself in self-defeating
and oft-repeating
cycles of shameful burnout.
I had no more nose to grind down,
and the stone was slick with blood and cartilage.
My hands and feet would tell me
“Keep us moving, you
can’t stop to go to the bathroom just yet.”
So I would fret
every little break to stretch or eat something.
I would purposefully forget
that several hours had gone by
and I had not left my chair.
If I step away from the computer,
how can this count as an eight-hour day?
I may have been
hurtling my fragile bones
toward a hole out of which I cannot climb.
Maybe I took some time
to re-evaluate my work habits.
I may have finally concluded that
the end result does not always justify
unsustainable means.
I had to clean
the muck out of my skull,
and think in a clearer space of mind.
Now the mental space of mine,
and my working frame of mind,
they are much nicer.
Please excuse my strange phrasings –
I am actually taking a break right now,
and I will return to remote work
as soon as I may.

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