chris6ixty6
She had a deft hand at many things. He'd watched her for months at work. Her fingers sweeping across the keyboard, the way she twirled her stationary in her hands when she was thinking. A deft touch with her dress and her makeup. No he watched for the first time as her deft fingers undid the buttons on his shirt.
I wanted influence. I wanted to know, or at least believe that my actions had some effect on those around me. But no, I walk along the same corridors every day with the same empty gazes meeting my eyes. I make no dent, no minuscule impression on their worlds. I lack, amongst other things, influence.
Wrapped. In something. Who knows what... Whatever it is it digs into my lungs and pushes the air out of me. Every time I try to wriggle myself a little freedom it gets tighter and tighter and tighter some more.