Hotel rooms. Planes. People talking in whispers at breakfast tables across rooms.

Dressed for success they are looking at you.

Shoes and pants and belt buckles.

You just want to go home.

But you go on because you must.

You just didn’t imagine yourself in a business desert.

And now you know why people retire early.

Why they just sell it all and leave.

You wish you’d never started that instagram account, because the life that smiles there doesn’t really exist.

You are in foreign territory. Foreign even to yourself.

Directionless.

But moving anyway. Helpless to stop it all.

Afraid of what’s next.