Eleven past eight

Prose written by the_nev_a_prospect on Friday 8, July 2011

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There's nothing even remotely inspiring about where I am. The office walls - a dreary immitation of white the way after a photography class nothing is truly white ever again except for pictures.

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There's nothing even remotely inspiring about where I am. The office walls - a dreary immitation of white the way after a photography class nothing is truly white ever again except for pictures. Every surface - cheap, sterile, efficient. Ready for re-sterilization, water-proof, alcohol-resistant.  At eleven or two in the afternoon there's no magic hour for us entry-level workers, minimum wage earners, there's only more work which is like saying there's only tic-toc, you're one minute closer to death.  There's nothing inspiring about the way I'm slouched back in my chair arms half resting on the cheap plastic, cheap plywood covered in cheap vinyl. An immitation of an immitation. A placeholder for a desk. What people imagine when they think of a desk, the way most people draw stick figures when they mean to draw a human being. There's nothing inspiring about me, selling the best years of my life at eight dollars an hour. My collegues, a barely tolerable crowd of everymen, or as much as you can know someone from just work, a crowd of uninspiring brats.  They say the normal course of events is you spend a few years in uni, learn to hate the machine, then you're broken by it destroyed trivialised, by it, by eight dollars an hour. There's nothing inspiring about a normal course of anything. People want tragedy drama, the breaking of hearts, the joining together of souls. For eight dollars per hour you better make sure you're doing the best with your free time.  There's nothing inspiring about where I am and yet I write. There's nothing out of the ordinary with what I'm telling you and are you listening? Are you paying attention? This is not some shocker story about life or death, there's nothing exciting about what I'm going to tell you but please, please listen. In a place like where I am now it's a fate worse than death. It's death like if you believe in Heaven, only the way your soul stays with the body for fourty days. Like some part of your mind is always aware instinctively that you're rotting away. And in fourty days you'll be in Heaven, but right now you're terrified of when the decomposition is going to start and how it's going to look.  You better believe then  your soul is blind and deaf and has no sense of smell. This is not meant to be a shocker story so I'm not going to explain the deaf part. And everything here feels like a trial the way a desert can be a trial for a God only yours isn't saving anyone's soul.  Trial the way Nietzsche spoke of the camel, the way Bukowski just wanted a place to drink, the way you're going to be in Heaven some day, if you're good. The way you rot now imagine how wonderful Heaven will feel, imagine, eight dollars an hour. Imagine me doing this for another eight hours. For two more years.  In a place like this even the boss thinks you must be crazy if you stayed more than a year. Quote, unquote. In a place like this they ask you to work on Christmas because they know your parents are divorced. In a place like this, you just rot until the next paycheck. And you better buy yourself something nice, or your wife, or your kids. In a place like this you've got to work real hard just to forget. Other than that the work is scarce and it's as easy as fuck all. In a place like this you learn how to write,  or how to take a decent picture or those fourty days - no this is not a shocker story, so I'm not going to say they'll last forever. Still, pay attention here, like they tell you to look both ways before you cross the street and never ever trust strangers.  If you're just like me, some minimum-wage earner, another entry-level worker. If there's nothing at all inspiring about where you are do yourself a favor, learn to love someone real hard or those fourty days, no they won't last forever. It's just that at eight dollars per hour you won't notice how quickly they'll come around.

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    A superb observation on our crazy, mechanized, electrocized society.