If I may play a little with words, I’ll call myself an underground writer working undercover. You’ll see me head to a white-collar job every day, walking confidently into a role that pays good money—a token of temporary fortune, a means to foot the bills.
I dress nicely because there’s a feminine desire to make a statement beneath the disguise. “I have come here to chew bubblegum and kick ass. And I'm all out of bubblegum.” I work like an automaton because there are boxes to tick beyond the surface-level motives. It’s almost—almost—like I’m a true eight-to-five worker. Have I completely merged? Is this a golden assimilation onto the conventional track?
But the truth is hidden in plain sight—rip open the blazer, and there’s an ‘I Heart Literature’ raglan underneath. I walk along the writing route even when it passes through a dark tunnel in a nameless mine. The stones gleam with every footstep, guiding me to the anvil. I toss the blazer into the magic mud beside it. My disguise will get clean overnight, while I carve words out of quartz.
If I may play one more round, I’ll call myself a semi-unprofessional writer acting like a semi-busy employee. You’ll find me occupied in my cubicle, but you’ll semi-wonder what ground I stand on. “Is she an underground writer? Is she a worker? Isn’t she going undercover?”
Well, you’ll never know.
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