He walks up to me with drooped shoulders
And falls right into my chair
“Can I ask a question?” And like one determined to talk
He does not wait for an answer
“How is it my comfort zone when I am not comfortable here?” He asks
“How is it my comfort zone, if I feel wasted, unfulfilled, resentful and broke?
How is it my comfort zone when its nothing like my dreams
Just drudgery, drudgery and occasional flashes of excitement?
How is it my comfort zone when all I feel is discomfort?
My mind tells me
My body tells me
My lips tell me
Even I, tell me:
Surely there ought to be more to life?!
Why is it called a comfort zone when it leaves me full of questions?!”
A sigh and he walks off without awaiting an answer
The next time I see him, its at the park
There’s a crowd gathered around him
They seem to have found a gem
He looks really happy playing his guitar
and accepting hand-outs in its case
He looks peaceful, rested and so does his dog at his side
Now I sigh, I would gladly trade my pay check for the fulfilment in his eyes!