I know what you’re thinking. This is the first line, and I should thus spend it wisely. Fire off a quick quip that perfectly captures everything I am in a single sentence, make it sound cool and enticing, show off my so-called writing skills and make it all presentable. True. Honest, and, at the same time, impossible to believe. As if I’m a dream landing in your mailbox. The person you've looked for, and here I am.
Yet, I’m not going to do that. I see little chance of achieving that
goal, as it is—you are well aware—an impossible one. I might as well
give up trying, as this non-alliterative gospel here will drive you up a
wall before I get the chance.
I’m already gone far down your spam-folder by now.
It’s just a little attempt, they say. You might as well try. Nothing bad will happen. What’s the worst? How can they harm you anymore than they already have?
It might as well be over by the time we get here, right?
It’s close to half-down the page. You stopped reading two paragraphs ago. So, this is just a routine, a dance we perform among each other. An asynchronous ritual of our species, slowly eroding to the lack of time, and so, we come close, closer, closest to the ending at which our time approaches.
Those trumpets, they say. Westernly, unknowingly. Whatever comes, it’s sure as hell not trumpets. Hell. Couldn’t even think of a better instrument, could they?
But whatever, let it be, it’s a… a thing we do because we have to. A mating ritual or a coming-of-age-test. A cave or a song. A night or a dance.
And once, here, at the bottom, we go our merry ways. None the wiser, tuning out to the world with our own unique glance. I whistle my life away on a rock, and you, I don’t even see you. Did the idea that dialogue was a two-way street vanish the day we began following guidelines set up by ancient rites and street-wise philosophers?
When did all I am become a piece of paper?
There’s little I can do to change it. I play the game because I have to. At least I try. Fail, sometimes.
But now? Now, I’ve given it my best shot. It’s right here, out in the open, lying like a dead fish on a cattleprod. You can tip it and I’ll fall over.
allow me to balance, let me find my footing
and I’ll show you dance.
I wrote this, as you can maybe guess, when I was creating my resume
(or CV or whatever), and I got a little frustrated with the process. And
this was a decent way to let all that out.
It's not... a direct one-to-one relation of what I think of CV's. I understand their practicality, their use, their function. They make sense. I get it. Doesn't mean I'm not allowed to be a little frustrated too.
I hope you enjoyed it, and, if you've ever had to write a resume too (which, I assume most people have), I hope you saw something you recognized. But hey, if you didn't, leave a comment about what you think of the whole thing :D