Sometimes it’s the little things: a subordinate clause in a sentence, an off handed comment, a book title in the window shelf, a magazine cover, a hot off the press article, the thousand words in a glance, the backdoor, the curtain, the wall, the two way mirror… It’s that anecdotal story, that tirade, that verbose soliloquy… Two hands nervously shaking under the scrutiny of those who focus on the material and not substance of a person. Those things are multiplied with the lack of equivalence, the well crafted stance, based on the correct position, the most authentic position, the most sound position. All I wanted was to be free. But these little things build up to a gigantic mountain and they weigh so heavy on my shoulders that I can’t breath.