The life of a working person

The shivering sound signals a shudder through the body, pausing the mind, intensifying the body’s anxiety – the sound of machinery: you pull, eject, load, unload, force mistakes, type: Every noise is the incense of shattered dreams.

Laughter accompanies internalised oppression; everyone is free in un-freedom; jokes exchanged in the expense of what exists within, to break voice of the voiceless, platformless yearning for freedom. But they are convinced of the worth bestowed on them:

“This is how you do this and I have an easier way of doing it,” says your trainer, half smiling, almost proud of their-self, as if marking an important advancement for human-kind. But you do not judge, for they are not inclined to admit the futility of their existence, wasted life, swimming in bread-crumbs, tossed by their rulers.

Whirlwinds of sounds transform, creating what everyone agreed on: Another mundane hour; you are full of smells, sounds that disgust you. The smell exhaled from it all is all that keeps you going, despite it all.

Higher-ups yearn to share their power, but only in their voice: A million things done right become trumped by what is supposedly done wrong. Saliva exerted, in-coherent sentences fixed to form a gratuitous protest against you – but he is right, for his power is given by divine right: The God complex.

“Aren’t we all Gods, creators ? then why this disdain for our nature, why the purposeful crushing of the soul ?” Now, you fear the inevitable truth: They have imploded, murdered themselves for an idea. But the urge of a creator never dies; and the small mind – a consequence of intolerance of the conscience, decade through years of neglect – equates creating with God and God with power: They are ‘power’ and you their creations. A sub-concious paradox occurs. The human-mind cries for creative work, certainly in the face of “soul crushing” capitalist ‘jobs’. The anger, frustration is poured like burning oil on the lower-orders.

You are now aware: Not only are you just a creation of ‘them’, you are a mere utensil for the interest of the master(s). But isn’t this all to be nothing but dust – us, our achievements ? “Our dust must glow and glitter the heavens when we burst,” you say; but all this turns us grey, destroys who we are, what we can be and, perhaps worst of all, forces the internalisation of the values that crushed you: having power, gaining money, forgetting all but self. Our dust will be nothing but a new trail into darkness, squandered gifts and a repository of “what could have beens”.

How are we to bring our ‘minds’ to not despise — and define our every-day existence – its people – as good, exceptional ?

We must resist; we do; we shall win: re-create the world to create again; shatter, shake, rock, not our dreams, imagination, artistry, but all that trespasses our integrity.


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