Playing Along

“All you can do is play along at life and hope that sometimes you get it right" -Dexter Morgan

What I do now is making me dumber by the day.

Where I'm at people walk around like giants, yet I've to be careful not to step on anyone. No, not feet but egos - that exaggerated but fragile sense of self-worth that can neither be pricked nor slighted.

Everyday I wake up having to resist the urge to be myself, to dispose of the halo and just bare the fangs. But I couldn't. I shouldn't. I have to blend in, never stand out, keep up (or down) and never break pace.

It's like riding on 12 cylinders in a go kart arena, nudge the pedal and you're bound to give somebody the whiplash. Movement, any if at all, is a little faster than idle, but already, breakneck for many.

And because "attack" is not an option, here, now, I retreat - to this obscure corner of cyberspace - hoping to retard retardation itself, writing for the first time without the promise of reward, renown, or remuneration. Now, here only to keep my sanity, assuming I haven't yet lost it.

This is therapy and this blog is the first of many sessions. The next ones will make more sense. This however is just for me - a stream of consciousness from an unguarded moment, the truth as it comes only through anonymity - from the poet who has long buried his poetry, but whose words are sold as voice for others. (DPG)