Can you imagine it? A situation where a wild, passionate, adventurous, free-spirited poet somehow becomes trapped in the life of a boring management consultant. It's like a sort of modern-day Grimm Brothers fairy-horror.
If it happened to me, I know just what I would do.
It would be important not to get found out otherwise disaster of an unspecified nature would strike. So I would button myself tightly into my business suit and play the role to perfection. Then every time something happened that seemed as if it might elicit an inappropriate response (anger, tears, falling in love, belly laughs, multiple orgasms, writing, getting drunk, dancing) I'd wrap it up quick and put it in a box. Lock it up, lock it down, file it away. Then get back to being Appropriate.
Boy oh boy there would be a lot of boxes stacked up there by now, if it were me. I'd bet some of those boxes would have stuff banging away, rattling about, trying to break out. Keeping them all nailed down, that would take some time and trouble: all that authenticity, that vibrant, messy, noisy lifeforce, wanting to escape and see the light of day. It would be some job, holding it all in. I'd get tired of it, I expect.
And then what would happen? I don't know the rest of the story.
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