M. Kaat Toy
The Promised Land
Donning the oxygen mask dangling before me, I once again enter the blank territory I have been assigned to, its disenfranchised state refracting to the honing prisms inserted in my chest: HAZARD. The dangers of my differences frighten me into crossing this monochromatic dead zone of the automatic pilot repetition of my days, while the economic inviability of place-based commitment forces me to pursue an advance degree in solo migration, driving me further from the optimal interactions of prosperous commercial routes. Navigating through crank communication, a persistent, dark voice from the control tower smoothly ordering the government to stop reading us interferes with my concentration. These recurring breakdowns in conceptual coherency for critical realignment are worse than I recall as my synapsis, scrambled by self-doubts, resist the strands of sensuous tone painting available at alternate attitudes. Commanding myself to sit nicely to put right my past intolerance of dismal situations, I prepare for a crash, hoping to be delivered by the improved flight plan I have repeatedly requested from my superiors which they have not filed yet.