Not expressive enough- too expressive, inexpressive, who are you to express that?
My dear sir, why don't you feel something for once?
Don't you know I feel everything? Locked behind an invisible door of late discovery, keyless, hingeless, more wall than door, a passage in theory only. There I feel more deeply than I know what to do with.
Oh yes- I feel.
I feel the waste every night when I close my eyes and remember how inconsequently I've spent my time- my most valuable possession.
I feel the world turning, passing me by in the unstoppable march of time.
I feel the people around me merely existing- no more, no less.
I feel what I'm told is my life, the measured drawing of breath, the community, the expected achievements, the unexpected challenges; but it lacks the sting of reality.
I feel the consequences of my intractability, the impact of my intransigence.
I feel the weight of my inestimable ability to undermine, under achieve, under exist.
Every time I stop and think I feel fake- so why do it? I'm chastised by my superiors; no, by the existence of them, by the simple fact of their actuality. The top is a lonely place, and I doubt I have what it takes to make it. Who am I