I do my little ramp imitation as I walk back to my seat from the bay door; pronounced steps, a slight swagger; nobody takes notice, and my kick stays with me. Back on the seat, hunched, drowsy, confused, restless, wasted; you could kill me had you seen me rambling forward on the chronological axis in this state. Boss-gamma-mama tries taking interest in my assigned task for a while, and after a while of actually trying to explain him the task at hand, I simply hurl some tech jargon to see him scampering away. I love seeing people scamper away like that.
I barely invest my time in anything while in this corporate zoo. Even scribbling down seems tedious – it’s like the spirit of the working class enters my body upon an entry in the office, making me do all this ugly stuff that I don’t want to. My technical bent is a long lost brother now, a castaway from my own heart, like a king impeached partially by circumstances, much by guile, waiting with its forces outside the town for the day when it could claim its reign again. I doodle these silly things on my table desk (right now it’s a bad conception of Shiv Sena’s snarling tiger), conditional on access to a working whiteboard marker, rub them away, maybe write words in strange/skewed typefaces, or something in foreign language (Arbeit Macht Frei seems appropriate atm); I have lately ended up messing my trousers or those lighter coloured shirts with a stray marker trail.
In some time we are legally entitled to leave. "Well, we could. But we won't." The people around are on track to be voted the best vegetables in town; no insistence or convincing helps; an imitation war of sorts. I can feel a Silence of the Lambs in here...
- What did you see, Clarice? What did you see?
- Lambs.
- They were screaming.
- They were slaughtering the spring lambs?
- And they were screaming.
- And you ran away?
- No. First I tried to free them.
- I opened the gate to their pen, but they wouldn't run.
They just stood there, confused. They wouldn't run.
- But you could - and you did, didn't you?
If we were a pill, we’d have tangibly seen ourselves losing our character with the daily circular motion of the sun that sets our lives stirring, dissolving us faster and faster in the ether of humanity, till we all contribute a common consistency to the impotent chemical solution called life that nobody would ultimately drink for no great thirst to satisfy. It’d just spill over someday, perhaps… as insignificant a moment as our entire lifetimes have been (or will be).
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