Prison of sorts

Head phones in. 

Trapped in my cubicle, I sit anxiously with my feet glued to the cheap carpet floor. My shoulders adjust every so often to find a new position without lacking slight discomfort. My ankles tap to the consistent beat of the music, as if all the momentum I’m dying to put in motion is being channeled directly through them.  Staring at my screen and mapping out the 8 counts of the songs I’m absorbing, I begin to contemplate articulate choreography, only to be forgotten minutes later. 

But not to worry-with inspiring music comes ideas, fueled by the potential and fluidity of the rhythm.

It is taking all of me not to leave this suffocating establishment and pursue my passion.