The Daily Grind Crushes Yet Another

I hate working. And though this may sound like a familiar song, it may just be a different one (but from the same songwriter). I hate chipping away at something that's neverending. Like rolling a boulder all the way to some Godforsaken hilltop only to wake up the next day with the SAME THING going on again. I hate thinking about existence because, in my all-consuming human conceit, I'd still like to believe we're built for better stuff. I hate slaving away just so I could tell myself that a job's all there is to it. The all-mighty currency, that golden ticket to having a life a bit better than that of a pauper. As a beggar, you submit to the kindness (however arbitrary) of strangers. If not, there's always exploitation. With being a working stiff, you submit yourself to something even crueller than kindness-- the caprice of your "superiors". I'd like to believe that people would like to be better people in the end but the office place is a harsh teacher. I feel like a maggot working away at a carcass. Wait. A maggot has a better stand in the "grand" scheme of things. I feel "trivialized". Worse, I feel soiled. Perhaps it is foolish to subscribe to lofty notions but I feel as if I've been doing myself this great disservice staying, hanging on, this long. Perhaps a timely bath is in order. A purging. A cleansing...

Someday, I hope to get this nasty aftertaste off of my tongue.

The Last Man

It's a strange feeling: finding yourself the only customer left inside an internet cafe that was, but a few minutes ago, so (noisily) full. It's an oddness that you can't quite place your finger on. Similar to finding yourself in a near-deserted booth of the monorail. It's almost unsettling except you keep trying to reason with yourself that it isn't. That it's quite a normal thing for places to find themselves empty now and then. But the proximity to such "blankness" disturbs me. Perhaps it reminds me only too well of how close we are to the abyss. Of how we harbor our own empty spaces.