A Day In The Life Of ...
Monday, 8.25 am. A couple of 335E's follow orderly past, but I'm too lazy to catch either. I drag myself surreptitiously past a line of schoolkids, and a couple of joggers arguing about something which seems really important. The next bus arrives, and is jam-packed which means standing..again.The journey is long and loud(in spite of music blearing through my headphones). Shuffle play on days like this, just don't work. Like seriously.
The routine continues, as it should. Flash the Id card at the gate, have the bag checked and walk to the office building ahead.
A long,dreary walk with the exact same set of people who march along, until they divert away to a different door as we walk. Different company door to walk into, but same Monday. The big, heavy bags that hug them, heavy, presumably shouldering an entire week's worth of load. Same friggin monday. The faces get more familiar, as i amble towards my destination. The ones I'm likely to see more of everyday at midday, in lifts or during restroom breaks. And with the godforsaken idcards leashed around their neck, no less.
At this point, a half derisive smile of acknowledgement coupled with a gentle bob of the head to greet familiar folk is customary on such mornings, but with the music still playing, I can avoid the pointless chit-chat on how the weekend was, and all. Thank god for headphones man!
My skills of observation aren't passive though, as i notice the female walking ahead of me, with a phone stuck to her ear like some fucking magnet, struggling to walk in a straight line.
INFERENCE: Women, while talking on the phone, cannot walk in a straight line.
Don't argue with me on that one folks, I've noticed that a lot.
Now, I don't want to sound chauvinistic but when we guys talk on the phone, it's a simple activity. Talking. Communication. Synchronisation. Simple, see? The girls, on the other hand, shunt me out every morning, while I'm overtaking them for reasons unknown. I have a theory on that, but I'll elaborate on that in a separate blog. More on that later.
Anyway the lift pings, which I can hear in spite of the music fading away signaling a change in routine from the more fun, adventurous weekend, I head through the door and straight to my workstation.
I flip the imaginary hour glass of frustration, which seems to be almost full of sand every passing week, challenging the usual, mundane cycle of events that force this feeling of wanting to break the shackles, and escape a world of not being in control, watching the shit hit the ceiling again and again, and somehow wiping my face clean pretending it won't go there again.However disgusting, that last part sounded. Man, these bloody monday mornings were never this bad in high school, or college. The optimism of finding a way to combat what ever forced you into submission was exciting, over here it's knowing that obstacle would have a vice-like grip on you, slowing you down, breaking you inside and yet, strangely making yourself believe that everything is all cool.
Clint Mansell's harrowing soundtrack from Requiem for a Dream, plays repeatedly in the background, adding to the above exaggerated feelings of being victimised by the ill-effects of Capitalism and his cronies. Yeesh, i need help.
During moments of peace and calm, that come not so often, I dwell on the weekend that flew past. What i achieved, should I have slept that much? Was watching Athletic Bilbao vs Deportivo really worth it? Staying up late on Sunday night trying to prolong a weekend that was slipping away, just doesn't help. Like Duh!
Retrospection helps. One can avoid repeating mistakes. I feel more mature already.The week keeps moving, helping a tired soul trudge on. I don't have much time to look ahead, I try not to. Work is a bitch, and keeps me occupied and sullen. Hang in there, soldier! Sigh.
Wednesday evening, and I can feel the pace picking up. I like this job!
Thursday. Man, I can smell the fucking weekend! I remember the hangover like feeling on monday morning and how planning a weekend might actually help me for the next week. So I chart out a plan, and wait..
I hear Edith Piaf's dreamy voice ascending into the empty space of happiness above. I let it play, without stopping the alarm, imagining a beautiful morning welcoming me into the hyped weekend ecospace. The idea of the inception kick music as a morning alarm is the stuff of legends I tell you. Sometimes, you don't want to separate reality from a dream.I should probably watch Inception again this weekend. Awesome! Anyway, time to kick off bitch!
*stretches*
*turns the wristwatch*
Monday, 6.45am - FUCK!
A long,dreary walk with the exact same set of people who march along, until they divert away to a different door as we walk. Different company door to walk into, but same Monday. The big, heavy bags that hug them, heavy, presumably shouldering an entire week's worth of load. Same friggin monday. The faces get more familiar, as i amble towards my destination. The ones I'm likely to see more of everyday at midday, in lifts or during restroom breaks. And with the godforsaken idcards leashed around their neck, no less.
At this point, a half derisive smile of acknowledgement coupled with a gentle bob of the head to greet familiar folk is customary on such mornings, but with the music still playing, I can avoid the pointless chit-chat on how the weekend was, and all. Thank god for headphones man!
My skills of observation aren't passive though, as i notice the female walking ahead of me, with a phone stuck to her ear like some fucking magnet, struggling to walk in a straight line.
INFERENCE: Women, while talking on the phone, cannot walk in a straight line.
Don't argue with me on that one folks, I've noticed that a lot.
Now, I don't want to sound chauvinistic but when we guys talk on the phone, it's a simple activity. Talking. Communication. Synchronisation. Simple, see? The girls, on the other hand, shunt me out every morning, while I'm overtaking them for reasons unknown. I have a theory on that, but I'll elaborate on that in a separate blog. More on that later.
Anyway the lift pings, which I can hear in spite of the music fading away signaling a change in routine from the more fun, adventurous weekend, I head through the door and straight to my workstation.
I flip the imaginary hour glass of frustration, which seems to be almost full of sand every passing week, challenging the usual, mundane cycle of events that force this feeling of wanting to break the shackles, and escape a world of not being in control, watching the shit hit the ceiling again and again, and somehow wiping my face clean pretending it won't go there again.However disgusting, that last part sounded. Man, these bloody monday mornings were never this bad in high school, or college. The optimism of finding a way to combat what ever forced you into submission was exciting, over here it's knowing that obstacle would have a vice-like grip on you, slowing you down, breaking you inside and yet, strangely making yourself believe that everything is all cool.
Clint Mansell's harrowing soundtrack from Requiem for a Dream, plays repeatedly in the background, adding to the above exaggerated feelings of being victimised by the ill-effects of Capitalism and his cronies. Yeesh, i need help.
During moments of peace and calm, that come not so often, I dwell on the weekend that flew past. What i achieved, should I have slept that much? Was watching Athletic Bilbao vs Deportivo really worth it? Staying up late on Sunday night trying to prolong a weekend that was slipping away, just doesn't help. Like Duh!
Retrospection helps. One can avoid repeating mistakes. I feel more mature already.The week keeps moving, helping a tired soul trudge on. I don't have much time to look ahead, I try not to. Work is a bitch, and keeps me occupied and sullen. Hang in there, soldier! Sigh.
Wednesday evening, and I can feel the pace picking up. I like this job!
Thursday. Man, I can smell the fucking weekend! I remember the hangover like feeling on monday morning and how planning a weekend might actually help me for the next week. So I chart out a plan, and wait..
I hear Edith Piaf's dreamy voice ascending into the empty space of happiness above. I let it play, without stopping the alarm, imagining a beautiful morning welcoming me into the hyped weekend ecospace. The idea of the inception kick music as a morning alarm is the stuff of legends I tell you. Sometimes, you don't want to separate reality from a dream.I should probably watch Inception again this weekend. Awesome! Anyway, time to kick off bitch!
*stretches*
*turns the wristwatch*
Monday, 6.45am - FUCK!
posted by psychedelicred @ December 15, 2012
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