patterns they are a'changing

The night sets softly
With the hush of falling leaves,
Casting shivering shadows
On the houses through the trees,
And the light from a street lamp
Paints a pattern on my wall,
Like the pieces of a puzzle
Or a child's uneven scrawl.

Up a narrow flight of stairs
In a narrow little room,
As I lie upon my bed
In the early evening gloom.
Impaled on my wall
My eyes can dimly see
The pattern of my life
And the puzzle that is me.

From the moment of my birth
To the instant of my death,
There are patterns I must follow
Just as I must breathe each breath.
Like a rat in a maze
The path before me lies,
And the pattern never alters
Until the rat dies.

or makes up its mind. and this rat just made up her mind to change the patterns.

a gray cube with a laptop for just about anywhere with a laptop. a piece of silicon for seasons in the sun. IMBOs and ARs for first drafts and deadlines. managers for editors. green-backed monthly paychecks for nothing. no, wait. for bylines.

and it feels darn good. there is a goal and a raison d'être. finally.