Financial superheroes. Dollar sign emblazoned on chest, standing with hands on hips gleaming at the sun. He has a cartoon grin that takes up half his face, yellow-blonde hair with an Elvis Presley-esque wave as if it’s a hat-tip all on its own. Reddish cape blows breezily behind. Boots are black with silver buckle. Advertisement or personification?? I see boring gray cash registers and metal clacking typewriters, scrap metal drives in war time. Infrastructure beams that pile up coldly. These little vices that hold us in place. They are not comforting. They are deconstructed jail cells in which we must navigate through unexpected labyrinths. They are stock-still Dementors, sucking out souls and rendering us helpless. Housing crisis. It always seems like some trapdoor through which I must inevitably encounter. One more step to growing up. I don’t want to be alone forever. Renting and leasing. Spending and saving. The balance of living life comfortably. Closing bank accounts and not feeling confident about the current one you have. As I sit here in shorteralls, I cannot help but feel inadequate at the future responsibilities in which I am ill-prepared for. No matter how much I procrastinate, no matter how much I read, I feel as though I will always feel guilty at having done the other thing. Screengrab. Six figure number. No lucky lottery. Amnesia and forgetfulness. Arrogantly aging. Cha-ching of rapid fingers, the pulling lever that opens the cash drawer. Feeling badly for those in rough places, addicting to drugs and blinded by reality so that they consider robbing these inefficient machines, blindly taking a life when they don’t have to. Short-sightedness. The living day-to-day. It doesn’t have to be like that. Traipsing along dark alleyways in secret. Their black capes’ collars turned up so all you see are the whites of their eyes. But this isn’t a goofy Hamburglar. This is some frightful reality that exists…somewhere. And even though I don’t see it, it doesn’t mean it isn’t happening. And I feel sorry about it. Big toe dips into cold sand. Paranoid illness. Bankrupt conscience. Daisy-Lily, baby.

Author: Roe

30. she/her. Songwriter & Trek Punk Soul™.

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