I fear for my life.  But not in the normal context to be expected during a global pandemic.  For this life is not my own, yet a possession of a corporation or in my case a University.  For as far back as one can remember, this American Dream seemed to be a trap which I have desperately tried not to fall into.  Just in recent weeks it has become much more apparent that this life is barely 35% lived to my own accord.  Two precious days a week, out of seven to do as I choose.  This time is not nearly enough.  Driving for an hour, through the dark woods and hillsides dodging wildlife to punch a clock. How has everyone conceded to this, the retirees making it decades with a straight face? I seem to be the only one outraged, mad at pleasantly weathered days while tethered inside these pale painted cinder blocks, under the deafening buzz of fluorescent lights, not a window in sight.  Coasting along for many years with this in the back of my mind, and the ability to suppress it enough and show up every day.  This animal abuse induced pandemic has thrown a disruption into our routine, revealing something which has previously been unseen.  But now, ever more aware that every time I look up at the clock to calculate the hours and minutes until freedom, it is counting down the hours left in this short and incredible life.