Tired
I am so tired my eyes bleed sand. The grit of the day sluices down through my body, from the depths of my skull to the tips of my eyelids. I am weary. I feel the cold whispers of winter flavouring the air. My cycling-short-clad legs are unable to hold me, so I sit.
The rumbles of an unsatisfied stomach arise from below my chest. The desk cuts into me, my teeth hurt, and together these two make me sick with the worry of the day. Every moment I live and breathe, every moment I edge closer to death. I work myself there.
I don't know why I must absorb the burdens of all my colleagues. Perhaps I do not value them as much as I should.
My betrothed to be, whom is blissfully unaware of her status and importance in my life, is away from me. She is torn away by the clutches of a fierce economic beast, a beast who mewls the sickeningly plantative cry of the poor.
She serves the hungry, the tired, the stupid. It is no shelter, no soup kitchen in which she works. She works in the hell kitchens of the local McDonalds – the friendly face of the facist corporate family. The mewling, which is ever present, beeping and calling, demanding her most exemplary efforts and obsessive attentions knows no bounds.
She dares not slow, nor know no rest; for her cruel overseers taunt her onwards. She will not be home a happy soul.
I dare not tarry, for my time is precious. She will be home, and I must lay to sleep. Of the work, I know no end. The work has no meaning anymore, it has long since fallen into an endless gray blur. I must write, I must create, I must learn and think! To stop is to die! To let the crushing tides of life ebb and flow no more!
She does not understand, she only want that I care for her. That in itself has become work – work to which I throw myself with merry abandon. I lay my axe to the grindstone of our love, to feel the tortured screams of metal against stone. The flecks of red hot metal are what I seek – the warmth, the light, the tiny specks of solace that we together only know.
Only through struggle can one truly know hope, and it is with our struggle I carry myself through the hellish days.
The work consumes me, the pull of duty. I cannot harken to its call. The medium with which it summons me has long since washed away; but alas, I cannot cease my endless toil. I sweat with angst, I gnaw hungrily on the forces of mediocrity. I cannot do, I cannot make, so what have I become?
I can only hope she will return soon, to wash the worries of this wretched day away.
The rumbles of an unsatisfied stomach arise from below my chest. The desk cuts into me, my teeth hurt, and together these two make me sick with the worry of the day. Every moment I live and breathe, every moment I edge closer to death. I work myself there.
I don't know why I must absorb the burdens of all my colleagues. Perhaps I do not value them as much as I should.
My betrothed to be, whom is blissfully unaware of her status and importance in my life, is away from me. She is torn away by the clutches of a fierce economic beast, a beast who mewls the sickeningly plantative cry of the poor.
She serves the hungry, the tired, the stupid. It is no shelter, no soup kitchen in which she works. She works in the hell kitchens of the local McDonalds – the friendly face of the facist corporate family. The mewling, which is ever present, beeping and calling, demanding her most exemplary efforts and obsessive attentions knows no bounds.
She dares not slow, nor know no rest; for her cruel overseers taunt her onwards. She will not be home a happy soul.
I dare not tarry, for my time is precious. She will be home, and I must lay to sleep. Of the work, I know no end. The work has no meaning anymore, it has long since fallen into an endless gray blur. I must write, I must create, I must learn and think! To stop is to die! To let the crushing tides of life ebb and flow no more!
She does not understand, she only want that I care for her. That in itself has become work – work to which I throw myself with merry abandon. I lay my axe to the grindstone of our love, to feel the tortured screams of metal against stone. The flecks of red hot metal are what I seek – the warmth, the light, the tiny specks of solace that we together only know.
Only through struggle can one truly know hope, and it is with our struggle I carry myself through the hellish days.
The work consumes me, the pull of duty. I cannot harken to its call. The medium with which it summons me has long since washed away; but alas, I cannot cease my endless toil. I sweat with angst, I gnaw hungrily on the forces of mediocrity. I cannot do, I cannot make, so what have I become?
I can only hope she will return soon, to wash the worries of this wretched day away.
posted by Dan at 5:47 AM
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