The Shape of All My Days

So it begins—

Not at the start,

But somewhere between

Ambition and a broken photocopier,

Where coffee cups once marked time,

And fluorescent lights hummed

My silent background music.

I learned the rhythm of routine,

Typed memos no one read,

Chased updates, patch notes,

And the pulse of a server room

That blinked in blue Morse code,

Like a machine praying for sleep.

I spoke the language of uptime,

Knew the gospel of backups,

Saw promise in blinking cursors

And the silent dignity

Of cables well-managed,

Labeled, looped, and left untouched

Unless crisis called.

Then the tide shifted—

From ports and protocols

To the click of cameras

And the retail sheen

Of handheld devices

Built for dreams

That rarely lasted past the warranty.

Suddenly, I was speaking

In marketing metaphors,

Not megabytes.

Pitching revolution

With every firmware update,

Writing poetry

On the backs of product boxes,

Selling stories dressed as specs.

And somewhere in that pitch-perfect chaos,

I found the craft of words—

The thrill of turning function

Into fascination,

Copywriting as spellcasting.

Language became a tool

Sharper than code,

And just as logical

When done with intent.

My voice traveled

Through magazine pages,

National columns,

Even the dim glow of an online forum

That blossomed into

A digital garden of thought.

We planted words

And watched discussions grow,

Watered by curiosity

And connection.

We were building the Web

One article at a time,

Believing we were cartographers

Mapping out the mind of the future,

Explorers with keyboards

Instead of compasses.

Startups rose and fell

Like summer thunderstorms.

We sold innovation like lemonade—

Sweet, slightly acidic,

Always fleeting,

Served with hope

And the scent of uncertainty.

I watched empires rise on bandwidth

And fall on broken NDAs.

But I never stopped writing—

Not when I was broke,

Not when I was bored,

Not when I was burning out.

Not even when the screen

Seemed more enemy than ally.

Then came a detour—

Not into failure,

But into reform.

A prison gate closed behind me,

This time not as inmate

But as staff.

Steel doors,

Paper trails,

Human stories

Pressed into the fabric

Of uniformed days.

Eyes tired but alert,

Minds ticking behind silence.

What use was a poet

Behind concrete walls?

Surprisingly, more than I knew.

I became a translator of trauma,

A scribe for second chances,

A quiet chronicler

Of days that looked the same

But never quite were.

I learned to write reports

Like riddles with answers.

To find clarity in conflict.

To speak the language

Of pain, pasts, and possibility.

To explain risk

Without stripping away dignity.

Words mattered here,

Sometimes more than they ever had.

The law called next,

As if it had been waiting all along—

I chased statutes like ghosts,

Climbed the shelves

Of dusty libraries

To find the rights of humans

And the wrongs they endured.

I studied space

Not in science but in structure—

Wrote a thesis

About the things we own

Beyond the Earth,

And the laws that follow us

Past gravity’s grasp.

Debated the future

Of orbiting property

And untethered claims,

Wondering who, if anyone,

Could ever truly own the stars.

By then my pen was permanent.

It had found its place—

Not just in contracts

Or casework,

But in creation.

I returned, older,

To the world of private work—

Protecting artists,

Escorting chaos

Through concerts, festivals,

The roar of stadiums

And quiet red-carpet nights.

It was loud and lovely,

Demanding but dazzling—

And I never let go of the craft.

There was elegance

In managing risk,

And storytelling,

Even in silence.

My fingers,

Nine soldiers and a loyal thumb,

Still marched across keyboards

With purpose.

Telling truths,

Tracking threats,

Or teasing fiction

From the folds of thought.

And the words—they changed.

From policy

To possibility.

From procedure

To poetry.

From compliance

To catharsis.

Fiction came next,

Or perhaps it had always been there—

Hiding in metaphors,

Peeking through reports,

Dancing in subtext.

Waiting in the wings

For the stage to clear.

Now, in this latest beginning,

I write stories.

Not just systems,

Or savings,

Or safeguards.

I write storms.

Hearts.

Laughter.

I write conversations

That never happened

But feel like memories.

I write magic,

And memory,

And men who change

Not because the plot demands it,

But because life does.

I write because I always did.

Because words followed me

Through careers, corrections, and creation.

Because writing is not what I do—

It’s how I understand

Where I’ve been.

And so it comes to this—

The end of a chapter,

But not the book.

Because the story continues

With every word I choose

To share.