Somewhere in the deep end of my mental processes is a cement layer devotion to competition. Only on top of it can any other currents flow. I don’t know when I laid it or how I willed it to be done, but I am beginning to recognize its solid presence and its interference. It has imprints of insecurity and fear where the “do not walk” sign was obviously ignored and some slight cracks from nights of stomping. I vaguely remember the battles that danced around it and gave it its character. It holds the weight of my steps, so I can’t hate it. Yet, I’m starting to notice it hasn’t taken me anywhere. I find myself sitting on its curbside, a bit stuck. As if its cement never quite dried and once I sat, I’ve never been able to move.