A Day In My Life

To me, most days are the same. I wake up when everyone else is snoring away in bed, and I’m already at work by the time sleepy hands start reaching for the snooze button. It wouldn’t be all that hard to rebel. In fact it would be really easy. But, philosophically speaking, what purpose would that serve beyond a momentary satiation of the ego? I believe that everyone has a part to play in keeping the giant clock that’s our world ticking, and that petty bouts of jealousy have nothing whatsoever to do with it.

Besides, if I were to be honest with myself, I’d be compelled to admit that I rather enjoy it. There is a certain charm to a workplace without workers. It’s the only time of the day when I can safely pretend that the world is indeed my oyster. Sigh. Perhaps it’s only a big-fish-in-a-small-pond kind of feeling of security, but no less pleasant for that. Once I had plenty of ambition. I would be wealthy and successful. I would be kind and magnanimous, yet respected by all. I would rule a kingdom of lesser people. I would be the big fish in the big pond. Now all that’s left is a weary body full of aching bones, that begs me, every single minute, to stop. To end a lifetime of thankless service, to let go once and for all. No, sir! I’m far from done. I might be old and tired, but compared to the pesky little rats who claim lordship over me, I have boundless energy!

Speaking of little pests, there comes my supervisor. Such a little creature, yet so powerful! Everything he touches turns to gold, it seems. I’m speaking from his point of view of course. Any viewpoint that claims neutrality would be forced to scratch away the veneer of glitter, and discover the murkiness beneath; the base substance made of the sweat and toil of uncountable others like me. Oh yes, I’ve heard stories. This man, no I won’t call him little again– physical stature doesn’t count for much where I work, squeezes every last minute of work out of these good people and dumps them, unceremoniously. The more I see of the machinations of this world, the very same machinations I’ve sworn to respect, the more obscure they appear to me.

What is clear to me is that I’m no different from all my predecessors. The same fate awaits me: a future that ends with me lying broken, useless, and forgotten, except for a shiny badge on his chest. You might ask me why I don’t heed the call of my body. Give up on my own terms. You don’t really understand me then. Giving in to weakness is just... abhorrent. Can the seconds hand on a clock stop moving simply because it’s tired? At the risk of overcooking the metaphor, the only acceptable way for the seconds hand to stop working would require the clock to get replaced.

There. I’ve gone off on one of my wild thought trips again. Don’t get me wrong. While I’m a bit too talkative for my own good, it’ll take a lot more than resentment to break the rules. I’d never turn on my supervisor. I can’t say the same about my some of my fellow workers though. Every society has them. The reachers, the dreamers, the gaily coloured pretenders. Like the brightest stars, they live short and dazzling lives, almost always beyond their true means. But unlike the stars, it’s the little ones that suffer the affliction. Every day I have to put up with their nippy little pranks and sharp tongues. I’m of course easy prey, with a lumbering body and a generally saintly disposition, but at least I have the consolation that I’ll outlive three generations of them. Their masters are just like them, addicted to the razzmatazz, and consequently infinitely more cruel and demanding than mine. Having said all that, my mask of saintliness does slip sometimes. And my, how they scatter, fleeing my rage like flies from a fire. 

It’s my lunch break now. Actually it’s my supervisor that has the lunch, I just get the break bit. Watching the fussy little man eat, I can’t help but notice the hangers-on. Noisy hordes of people like him that are just about everywhere. Even now, they swarm every place I can see, which again makes me wonder: how can there be more supervisors than the supervised? Ha, I guess I just don’t know everything. Technically I report to only one supervisor, but these pathetic midgets, all of them behave like they own me. I don’t know if they simply do enough boot-licking to curry favours with my boss, or if they really do own me, in some sense, as common property. They expect me to do the simplest things for them, and they expect me to do that all the time. Sometimes I wonder if I’m carrying them up their career paths myself. Sigh. Rules, rules. 

Fatigue is like your ego. You never get used to it, and it affects everything you do. Well, it’s been my companion for several hours now. Sunset’s come and gone, the moon’s shining radiantly high in the sky, the drone of the buzzards only gets louder with the switching on of their artificial lights, but my work goes on. Mine’s no nine-to-five job after all. It’s tough being a bus.