Future (Why My Family Thinks I Look Stressed Even When I Tend To Disagree)
A mount of papers ungraded. A set of sweaters unfolded. A collection of fruit uneaten. A set of plans laughed at by whichever entity we believe. A window to the cold Harlem skyline in the winter. A couch that find its home with its own wall, but currently unpaid in full after months of repayment. A stack of magazines still fresh from the plastics unopened. An annoying itch in my throat, a swelling left heel, and a creaky knee un-helped by my girth and unrelenting stubbornness with hospitals and appointments as a whole. A dissonance between what I believe about my profession and the anecdotal evidence for something completely different. A voice from the outside of my sphere knocking on my force field like flies running into a windshield, and people in my sphere paying too much attention to it without a fly swatter. A set of gloves strapped to my wrists, still, after battling against a past