Fi(ckle)rst world banes

Wake up, wash up, up for work. two flights up, wasting the first hour away, and then spending a quarter of the second going up yet again, just to lift one’s spirits up a little over the thrill of breakfast with a view and a pinch of fresh air.

Ham and Brie Toast the hands held, the mind a blank canvas, whiter than the rind of white told cheese. But the eyes, whirled in as far as the central artery and vein of the retina can pull back, waltzes in a daze to the white noise of regret. An inviting organisation one level above, an established one that has almost always been but a dream in the neighbouring building, and the Salvo’s just across.

Yet we confine ourselves to a single unit, our existence that so grounds us defined by but four walls.

Directionless, aimless, floaters through the day, how do we differ from the misguided and lost souls that wander for eternity in search for atonement and moving on?

The lights that shine in the office stagnates – it does not guide you home. The windows at the back of the office are tainted, the glare of the sun effectively dimmed. The front, a door and an Exit sign. It is not tainted: its transparency shoots forth through the clear windows that convey a view of trees in the foreground, the pinning blocks of flats in the back ground, and an occasional blue sky – a charmer that lulls you into daydream if you allow it.

Time and again, i ask myself – if this the standard i allow myself to be. What am i doing, here?

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