Her death was quick, yet painful. I peered at her expression with deep fantastic satisfaction as the crowd gathered, echoing gasps of horror. She was in my way. She would instigate projects, initiate deals without the intention of satisfaction and lacked professionalism. A soft rumble of thunder echoed my sentiments... I'm hungry for success and she was simply the Sous Chef from hell. Her cheeks soiled with tears of grief and fresh rain drops. She was beautiful. She was kind beyond her means, graceful in her speech and poised through her undeniable wit. She had a knack for sweet talk and the conservation of other's emotions. I lack her character.
Slipping into the darkness, I turn to glance at the body of content lain upon the sidewalk. I removed the wool from my eyes, replaced the organ on my shoulder with a chip and started walking. As the rain cleared my path in shades of charcoal and deep navy, I pondered my next step. This is life, screw the next step, we take over. Exhausted from creating fortunes worthy future generations of pompous heiresses and unnecessary luxuries, I thrust my shoulders forward striding slowly. With the intent of taking back my " voice", I placed my hands in my pocket withdrawing a small tablet. Tossing aside my print passport, it became real to me. I wont outsource my talent for " life long work", " good pay" or raise my hand at the national classification of " Native Speaker".
I'm a writer.
The echo of footsteps deafens my epiphany. The mourners have joined me. Exhausted from taking slack as workers " with no real job", they rise with me, leaving a battleground of wounded careers behind.
Call to arms.... Your recruited if you've had enough, if your tired of just " making it", realizing you deserve more, or searching for your next " gig" daily. Come with me. We wage war starting today, arm yourself with your finest caffeinated beverage, guard your hearts, and ready your fingers to create a symphony of intrigue in unison.
