It seems like I always come home at the end of the day so damn tired I can’t hardly do anything but eat and sleep.  Maybe search for some new music for a little while but then it’s food and sleep.  And food.  And sleep.  When you work you give out with the idea that your life and purpose for these eight or nine or twelve hours per day is only worth how much you can produce in an hour.  I, apparently, can produce $10 worth of bicycle rentals per hour.  This is simplified, of course.  It is worth it to the owners of the means of production to pay me as little as they can to keep me around.  If they pay me more it is due to the valuation of my happiness or contentedness in the work space as a member of the means of production (Land, Labor, Capitol).  And we all do it.  Don’t act like you’re above the system or even a totally reluctant participant.  You hypocrite, you.

Was my 9.5-hour-long productivity session worth $95 to me?  It would have been, but from today, after rent, bills, taxes, savings and basic necessities, I’ll probably have $5 to my name.  Exactly what most of a pack of cigarettes costs here.  I’m too poor to smoke and too much of a malcontent to not.

I totally look like this when I smoke.

And for what?  What do I feel at the end of a hundred bucks?  Like I just won a hundred bucks?  No, I feel like I just got run over by a truck.  Food and sleep, food and sleep.  The train of nonchalant routine is sneaking up on me, rustling food and sleep, food and sleep.  But what can I do?  I chose this system and can’t get out.  If only I could earn a little more, I could put it away, work hard now to rest later.  If only, if only, food and sleep, food and sleep.  I feel it like a train coming without pushing, lifting me up and taking me, powerless to stop it, immense and immovable, mute and powerful.  And you feel it too.  I know you do.  It’s all we can do to ignore it, but the inevitable futility of tired hands and tired feet and tired minds cannot wait to strike us profoundly.

Do your best to ignore it.  Lord knows that’s what the rest of us do.

This entry was published on July 28, 2012 at 18:59 and is filed under Prose. Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.

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