Friday, October 07, 2005


Twelve hour days, in sweltering heat conditions. That's what it is like inside of the paper mill. It's a factory, with huge smoke stacks, and it has soaked up decades of life from my own family members, and many other men, who have lost fingers, and all hope of following their dreams.

A worker approached me last night, about putting in an application. He said I seem to have my shit together, and be on top of my game.

I heard him out, and said our goodbyes, and walked back to the kitchen.

"I don't want to work at the paper mill."

"Why not?" asked my manager.

"Um...because it's LONG hours in sweltering heat."

"Yeah, but its a GOOD JOB, with good pay."

Somehow, the feeling I got from that was one of fear, and nausea. I knew it was coming.

"Michael, you need to get with the real world!"

"Yeah...but I want to go back to school, and become an artist."

"Michael...", she shakes her head.

As if following my dreams is a ridiculous thing.

And now I'm left here on this rainy day, off work, feeling like the biggest loser, people trying to hold me under water until all the bubbles of my dreams quit coming to the surface. As if I should conform, and work with a bunch of rednecks in a factory, and slave my life away until my body is broken.

I've seen it happen to many times. Just look at any guy in my family, other than me.