The Pits

Have you ever wondered what a butterfly feels like moments before it’s born? The unique feeling of suffocation that’s a debilitating concoction of impotence, and frustration at that state of impotence. It’s almost claustrophobic, but without the accompanying dread. The butterfly-to-be is perfectly aware that the process is in motion, and that nothing it does, or feels, is going to change that fact. Yet, that special agony of being trapped in a limbo state, a black box with no pinhole, remains.

Have you ever wondered how it would feel like to be at the heart of a nuke moments before it goes off? Perhaps you would feel the choking pressure of the tremendous amounts of energy compressed into the tiniest of spaces. Perhaps you would begin to ‘see’ the mad dance of the Universe’s most miniscule inhabitants - the way you normally see birds, skyscrapers and well dressed women- and their frenzy, their sheer undiluted restlessness hidden away in a facade of stillness. Maybe, what you would feel won’t all be awe. You might feel helpless at the stark inevitability of it all. Or perhaps, in the final moments, the last remnants of your optimism would rally, and you would hope that Sanity hits the off switch real quick.

Do you even know what a fragile state of being is? Have you ever put yourself in the place of, say, a soap bubble? No, don’t stop at the spherical shape. Wear the soapy film of the bubble like a second skin. Experience the delicate balance of forces that keeps the body from dissolving into nothingness. Forces that, at face value, are completely mismatched: it’s only your inherent elasticity, a love for your own skin if you will, that keeps at bay the powerful and insidious forces that the outer realm teems with. Appreciate this fact, and you might just begin to see the meaning of a fragile state of being.

Did you get all that? Now you might, you just might, get a faint inkling of how I feel when I’m listening to metal sitting in an overpopulated cab with five other people.

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.

Life and Death

One more for Musings.

Again, and again we are brought face to face with the fragility of life. Only a few days ago I had observed an ancient street dog pottering around, quite obviously on the brink of death. His fur had almost completely fallen out, and his thin, bony tail trailed limply along the ground as though he had neither the strength nor the will to hold it up high. The eyes were nearly sealed shut by years of inflammation and disease. His rail thin frame shook with every step, as though in silent protest against the ravages of an unkind life. Pathetic as his physical condition was, it wasn’t the worst thing. As I drew close to him, maybe to offer the solace of company, he jerked away violently as though stung. It was as if a once noble and proud spirit had been battered to the ground by years of wanton cruelty. My sadness was only slightly tinged with surprise. In school, everyday, I was forced to listen to the heart rending cries of stray dogs, mercilessly stoned by bored watchmen. Why can’t we just let things be? What was their crime? Is it that they had the temerity to try and eke out a living from scraps in a concrete hell? A hell that might once have been their home. As I watched, he limped away, looking for some other place where he would be left in peace. Such places were only diminishing by the day. He slowly made his way across the street, oblivious to traffic and people. Watchmen fingered their batons eagerly, seemingly hoping that he’d come close enough to receive a thrashing. His diseased and emaciated appearance commanded no sympathy from the men and women living out their lives in their own happy worlds. Instead, they looked suitably disgusted and avoided him. He simply walked on. He reached a shady corner in the street where a handy depression in the ground (was that one of his homes?) welcomed him. He lay down for a nap. My insensitive brain inquired if that would be his last action in this world. Like all good people in the world, I allowed him a moment of meaningless sympathy, and went back to my music. At the turn of the street, I looked back, perhaps driven by remorse. A large shrub completely obscured the pit, and the dog couldn’t be seen at all. The path I took that day leads to the lecture halls; I walk it every day. And yet, I have never seen the dying dog again. Maybe he has finally found a place where he would never be disturbed again.