My fist smashes into the metal storage compartment at the same moment I say “Fuck”. I mean it, too. Two deadlines both due simultaneously, a simple task undone by another busy man, and a higher up waiting, on hold, for an answer. The hand strikes true, ring and middle finger square, solid smack against the metal, perhaps even denting it.
The pressure had become too great, I had let the bastards get to me, had let the Fear seep in through the edges of perception, twice in as many working says the rage blinded my vision, blood rage boiling just below the surface, contained, sent back to its proper quarter. What doth plague mine heart so? Is it some underlying tractor beam drawing me back to her, some reasoning refusing to let the notion of getting her back go from my mind?
Am I torturing myself, or am I simply going through the stages of withdrawal, as with all others, letting my mud resettle, allowing my mind to become clear again, as I was with her in the beginning, before I began to sense her underlying feelings of uneasiness, and began to adapt, began to slowly give up more of myself to try to appease her, effectively driving her farther away.
And yet they persist, periods of intense joy, of lucidity beyond compare, when all things spread out around me in a web, almost tangible, near maddening in complexity, the imagination stretching to its farthest limits.
I force myself to run, even while almost asleep at work, I realize due to lack of oxygen, or because of the fact that I’m sitting in a fucking cube, without a view of the outside, or the ability or time to step outside, go sit on the side of the hill and watch the workers tearing apart the once-lovely valley, opening it up for development, a new road that will cut commute times by 70 percent, that will bring noise and smog, and sprawl to this parcel of land, hewn over hundreds of thousands of years, millions.
But who the fuck cares, in the face of progress? I don’t, at least not enough to take action, to join some local committee to protect those vanishing areas of San Diego yet untouched by human intrusion.
Enough, I cannot concentrate with Rob Roy playing in the background.
Movie past, let us commence.
Small things infuriate me. My boss, coming to speak with the two of us on the team, aware of the fact that I am upset, that I am frustrated on account of my workload. He leans over me, clapping my shoulder, saying, “if your raise paperwork comes through, and it’s lower than expected, I will weep with you.”
On the tip of my tongue, foremost in my mind, I am thinking “you’ll be weeping by yourself, if it comes through too low, because, as I’ve already told you, if my contribution is not appreciated at this company, I will take it elsewhere.” Oh but would I have said it, out loud, in front of the few others near enough to hear. Weariness and the training received for to maintain our team’s appearance as always-approachable, to-anything-capable individuals, keep my tongue at bay.
Motivation. It all comes down to that. It all comes down to having a gun at your head, creditors calling, to force you to make shit happen. I sense the approach of an event horizon, of a drastic reappraisal of the whole situation. I am deathly afraid of making it on my own, slave to no man’s idea, cubemonkey for none other than myself, free to shape my days as I see fit. But, will you be able? I have a talent. I have the urge, the burning drive to craft words, lies and truth, channeling nuance through twenty six keys, proliferating snippets of subversive text, lies veiled in truth, the edge blurring. Reality becomes harder to define, images from books, games, movies, flashing before my eyes, superimposed over what I know as reality, reaching out to friends, family, for some anchor in the face of this slow, boiling tempest.
Bring the pain.
No comments:
Post a Comment