You’d get stuck in this shit, this pretend real, this it must be important because you do it so therefore it must be important self full-filling cycle.
Why do I care about the budget and about what might happen if I don’t fill in the right bits in right fucking spreadsheet cells. It’s a load of bollox is what it is. There I was worrying. What’s that gonna do. Ain’t a single thing ever worry fixed.
I might run from this, at walking pace. Slowness by Kundera he talks about that the way our speed matches the inside of us like if you were in an argument you’d walk fast away or run away so I won’t run from this because it means nothing. A big NOTHING. Not a little nothing. All of this doesn’t matter. What does then. Something must. That’s the cows mooing in the back of your head or the sheep. Don’t gather with them. Get over the fence. Get out of the herd. Slip free. The dogs bark. Get back. Get back. Get back. Don’t. They’re toothless. It’s all noise. And fear. You know the one, the simpering voice in the dark. It’ll all go wrong. It is wrong, this. Piles of people with nothing. Get the spreadsheet cells. Ministers massaging numbers in store-bought rolled-up shirts and your here worrying about the spreadsheets.
It’s grand. The thing about work is it needs itself. This thing that you haven’t done only seems like it’s pressing in but really it doesn’t matter because it isn’t anything other than the pressure of the people at the other side trying to get out. As if we’re all stuck in individual gigantic red balloons pressing the unbreakable plastic. Dying to get free. There’ll be another thing as soon as this is done. Then another thing. And another.
A vast unending hall. Millions of miles long millions of miles wide. Unending. Each of us at a table. Chair bolted to the concrete. Working with springs and cogs. Tinkering with gears. The ticking of an enormous clock. A scream in each head. No talking. Finish one thing pick up the next. Every so often a wolf comes padding along the aisle picks up your completed work while on the next aisle another wolf leaves the next thing to fix. From time to time you think that the thing you’re working on now, the cogs, the springs, the wires are the very same parts, the self-same mechanisms that you completed earlier or yesterday or some other day. The clock ticks on. The thought dissipates like blood in a vacuum. Back to work.
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