Monday, May 15, 2006

The start of a new week...

... brings hope to many, dread to some, but to most of us, it's this feeling of stagnancy that we all have come to accept as part and parcel of our uninteresting life.

Monday morning, and the boss says he wants a meeting with me. Only thing is the asshole ain't in the office right now, so I'm reduced to ranting my ass off and hoping he gets an eyebrow twitch out of it.

Besides that, I'm pretty psyched that it's Cupcake's first day at work today. I hope they're treating her well, or there'll be more eyebrow twitches to go around.

The office resembles the dull, boring image portrayed by tv sitcoms and written books, only less interesting. But if there's any one medium that brings to life the wholesome dead-ness of it all, it has to be the indy-films.

Imagine this -

A dry grey day with a morning haze coming down upon the denizens of a developing country. There are people walking all around as the camera tilts down - they resemble the bits of litter on the floor; going with the motions of the air current.

As we get a closer look at the people moving to and fro, we see upclose their clothing and faces - cookie-cutter expressions on cookie-cutter fashion - all in-sync with the morning hue. The sound of their heels is drowned out by the traffic - amazingly loud cars that scream for attention.

We zoom into an alleyway, forgotten and ignored by the busy people rushing off to be unimportant. The litter seems to drifts out from there and onto the streets, but there's always more to spare from the alley. It once had a name, but years of neglect has torn its identity asunder, leaving no trace of it but a rusty lamppost.

The haze is not as rampant here; the warm damp of the scablands has since lost the need for polluting. The wet floor corrodes the cardboard boxes and litter, but there is simply too much to get rid of. Grime on the walls are waterfall in paradise, seemingly alive as it swirls its way down to the muddy floor where insects and pests come to die.

The first sign of life in the alley comes as a cough - cold and dry like the morning haze - as it echoes across the long valley and dissipates into the river of suits and taxis. More coughs come with every breath, and that gets lost in the mindless stream.

He looks constantly at the people passing his alley, thinking nothing of them as they do of him. He used to be one of them, but circumstance forced him otherwise.

What's more useless than useless? Well, it often depends on who's asking the question. As he sits in the corner at the end of the dingy alley, he wonders how much longer it will be before someone else forced by circumstance will take his place.

Traffic, heels, nameless faces, drifting litter - doesn't it all make sense now?

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