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  • Writer's pictureJoseph Hayden


Sometimes I feel like I’m unravelling, like this web of mine is fraying at the seams.

Carefully selected truths spun together insulate me, alone harmless, but weave them all together and they  form a delicate  ecosystem that hangs in the balance.

I question every step, though proceed without caution , charging into a mess of my own making.

I pride myself on honesty, but the whole truth doesn’t serve me.

This move I’m making is at the expense those who trust me, those who  I have led on and who will inevitably see through my bullshit when I choose to hand in my resignation.

I laugh about leaving this place in a state, romanticising the idea of dropping it right on its head when it needs me most.

I wonder whether I’ll enjoy watching it burn as much as I like to think, whether I have an overinflated sense of importance here and then, whether it even matters at all.

I wonder whether my work will fall to pieces in my absence, exposing me as the fraud I am.

Whether the relationships I’ve formed along the way will survive the ripples of my actions.

If there’s one thing I know it’s that I must keep these two realities separate, until I don’t.

So I show up each day and give my two cents like it’ll gain interest, all the while becoming just another disruptive former employee.

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