Paying my bills last night reminded me of why I cannot leave my current sales job never mind get out of Corporate America. So yes folks, my dream of working on a farm won't be happening anytime soon. This made me think of one of my favorite poems by Langston Hughes.
What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore--
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over--
like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.
Or does it explode?
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