There's no jobs labelled in neat letters that fit me,

Cubicles looming like white narrow teeth from dreams half remembered and visits to buildings so tall I wished to dangle my feet off the ledges to see them silhouetted against the skyline

You can't walk into a job fair, not nearly as merry as the name implies, and say I want to COMMUNICATE. I want to split my mind open for all to see, and peer into others

 I want to speak to that little girl in the small village, the one who has never seen anyone who has skin like mine, and I want to tell her all my secrets and hear hers.

 I want to write, and have it evolve like a living breathing beast as others add to me story.

 I want to take the fragmented words of a broken bodied vigilante and help others to be there for his most prized moments.

I want to create and learn and be created.

I don't know, yet, what this dream job, the ONE job, will be. 

 I know it will take me like a piece of clay and mold me, turn me from materials to art the way the best people in the world are transformed. 

I know to get there I need to transform myself; I need to soak up knowledge like I've lived in a barren desert of information, and reach out to others like vines.

I know too, that it may not exist. I may be the first, or I may have to bend myself a bit, fall into something that's a close fit. 

And maybe I won't find it right away, I know only my small corner of the great world, so until then I'll take bits and pieces, the offered edges and sharp corners, and be content with that.