I am home, and with a deep breath
it begins.
My days are numbered, but still I
have been wishing the last five of them away.
The first thing is to remove my
name tag. For two days only those who know me
will have access to my name.
Next off are the clothes, I can now
wear what I like and I do not like these.
Even the socks must go, down to the
fuzzy remains between my toes. I erase all evidence of my time
there.
From here I see endless
possibilities and potential. Sleeping late, watching
movies, and a hundred other things I won’t get around to doing.
I live for two days, foolishly
wishing that two days could last as long as five. But they pass, relentlessly and
mercilessly taking me back to putting on those clothes, socks, and nametag.
Then I go back, and with a long
deep breath it ends.
Friday
By Brian Wingrove
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