Future hermit reconciling his (albeit short-term) commitment to a career in mass communication.

Every obligatory conversation, every concern to extend the web of networking, every not-so-subtly coerced public interaction feels like an embedded knife being slowly extracted.

How exactly did I allow myself to be contracted into something so antithetical to so many aspects of my own personality?

What in the hell could have possibly possessed me to do such a foolish thing?

Foolish me.

I knew what I was doing, though whether or not it was out of some well-meaning ambition to round out weaker abilities or just one giant masochistic way of up-ending everything in a giant '*******' to how I'd been living remains a mystery.

Forcing myself to live a life outside of my comfort zone, I find it exhaustingly, unendingly -and altogether understandably-uncomfortable.

Am I learning something?

Undoubtedly, but I'm not necessarily thrilled about the insights that've been endowed on me.

Oh you Salingers. Oh you Brandos. You Plaths, DFW's and Garbos. You Fischers, Goulds and Hughes.

You lonely and abused. You gray, black and blues.

You at least left legacies before retreating into solitude.

When you get into the mindset of
"I'm going to write some poetry tonight,"
you start thinking in lines,
and,
if you're corny like me,
you end them all in rhymes.

But then, while you're doing some innocuous thing,
like peeing,
you find yourself thinking of something
that you think might sound pretty great.

Then you sit down to type it out,
but they've all gone away.

Like a flock of birds,
as soon as you sprint to catch one,
they all dissipate.

You're left there empty-handed,
wondering how you're no longer comprehending
some amazing string of thoughts that had flown through your head just moments ago,
now so far beyond your understanding.

On paper, it seems,
like little more than a non-event.

Sure, I mean, there have been a fair share of extenuating circumstances in the interim. Novel experiences. In-office romances. A plethora of deserved and undeserved advances. Premature deaths.

Hell, maybe I've got it backwards. On paper, it seems much more exciting than it's been.

Truth is, when it's happening in the moment, it just feels like drowning. It's hard to distinguish between which wave is which when each one is just contributing to a collective denial of your next breath.

But I'm breathing now.

It's almost overwhelming.
My lungs are telling me to keep it this way.

But my mind is telling me different. It's saying,
"This is too much. Shut it down."

I used to spend so much of my time
thinking of clever things to say (and in rhyme)
So that I could await the day when I'd find
someone who understands my kind.

They'd come along and say,
"You're fine,
I totally get it - we're of the same mind."

We'd hold hands and frolic in the sunshine,
but I'm exaggerating - a habit of mine.

Certainly that's all a bit idealized,
but when I think about it,
I begin to realize
that this has already happened.
In fact, several times.

And it makes me happy,
and reminds me, besides,
that I have wonderful friends
and we'll be alright.

I could tell you about my life, but that would ruin the mystique.
Poets seem to pride themselves on being dark and deep.

See beneath the surface,
and the first thing you would think:

Here's the epitome of failed friendship -
definitely one I shouldn't keep.

They're pushing you to do it-
To finish what you started.
They're giving suggestions and making edits.
Performing audits.
They're saying,
"Maybe if you just changed the wording here, the theme there, the meaning throughout, added more heart to it."

It's clear, and to be honest,
They care about it more than you ever did.

There's a difference between being with someone, and loving someone.

There's a difference between having a place to sleep at night, and having a home.

There's a difference between being lonely,
and being alone.