Tagged: journey

Monotony – A Story – Part 8

So here’s the deal; how many times have you been at your desk, pretending to work of course, daydreaming of another life? How many of us sit in the gardens of our own little secret worlds, scheming of creative ways to shake things up? Dreaming of ways to just flip the script and start over? We don our masks every day and face the world with our pretend selves…most of us tend to fake our smiles, fake our enthusiasm, and fake our brains into believing that we’re all on the same team. We all do it; the customary nods, smiles, and hello’s, the traditional talk about the weather and the local sports teams and what not, and the quintessential remarks about how we all can’t wait until 5 o’clock. It’s all the same; it’s the universal language of things. It’s as if we are all actors, and to be honest, the great bulk of us could truly win Oscars and Golden Globes for our performances. We’re all actors, and we’re scarily good at it. We are all performing on a daily, acting until five o’clock, acting through meetings, acting through the bullshit until we can reach our little safe zones, wherever that may be. Yeah, I get it. It’s like we’re following a script; we’re all different pages of the same book, and not one of us has any idea as to how the story will end. It’s a very thin veneer. Part of me would rather take on that horde of stumbling, slobbering, reanimated flesh that I was dreaming about than spend one more day…one more second, even…typing meaningless entries into that meaningless database.

Monotony – A Story – Part 1

It was a cold, black morning. The weatherman had predicted warm and sunny days all week, but in typical weatherman fashion, he was highly mistaken. Don’t they get paid to make educated guesses? Why can’t I get paid to assume? My eyes opened to a not-so-welcoming blast of crunchy, static laden 80’s rock on the dusty alarm clock; loud music to begin with, but even louder since I’d decided to crank the damn volume up to the max the night before in an attempt to jolt my tired ass up. It was a piercing, deafening roar that uncomfortably jarred me from an uncharacteristically pleasing deep sleep, a sleep chock full of unrealistic oddities and meaningless mystical journeys, coupled with beautiful damsels and angry zombies. I was running from them all for some strange reason.

It was hard to pry my eyes open that morning; it felt as though they’d been buffed to a high sheen with extra grain sand paper. Someone must have felt that my tongue needed a good sanding too, because it was as dry as the bottom of a homeless man’s feet, and tasted the part full on. Maybe it was the spirit of last night’s frozen .99 cent meatloaf special come back to haunt me. I roared a massive sigh, and shifted a bit to get comfortable; I lay sprawled out wide on my back, the dim blue light of the alarm clock illuminating my tiny, disheveled room. My eyes lazily floated about in the shadowy light, and I felt disgusted; not at the wretched taste that was eating my mouth, but the fact that my microscopic room, and world for that matter, amounted to the value of a dilapidated shit house.