What is this life? Do you ever wonder?
At times it seems a never ending effort, day after day, swimming against the current, trying to avoid being swept away in the rapids and thrown against the rocks.
I wonder where I fit in? Am I a square peg in a round hole? Or is the adage, “life is what you make of it”, an apt directive for how we should live and maintain our lives?
My personal life over the last five years has travelled like a ship which has traversed rough waters and found a safe harbour where passengers are warmly greeted and times are good but my working life flounders in the great ocean of misery, continually battered by storms or, alternatively, caught in the doldrums, trapped in breezeless air as the crew waits vainly for salvation which never comes.
Most of the time the satisfaction of my home life balances out the listlessness that gnaws at me through my working days. Like a wild bear it hunts me, following my scent, mile after mile, creeping closer, ever closer and I, like an unsuspecting hiker am easy prey to the giant beast.
Whilst most of the time I am stoic and get along the best I can I do from time to time wonder how I have fallen into this man trap of tedium.
Here,in my place of work, I scan the barren desert of the processing floor like a lonely Legionairre awaiting reinforcement.
No light escapes from this black hole and moments of fun and laughter are few and far between and most of those with whom I interact during the day promise me no relief from the shackles of constraint which I endure.
The quagmire which I find myself mired in is of course of my own making. Others with whom I have worked, seeing the map of life stretched out before them ending in a battle-axe block have beaten a hasty retreat and made good an escape before the sandstorm closed in again, forcing them forever into a disinteresting life, sucked clean of all pleasure, dumped in the marshes of doom.
And I remain, along with the rest of the victims, clinging precariously to a carly raft as the ship of destiny sails away with no thought to return for the pathetic survivors. No empathy, just disdain for those who care to stay, struggling in the waters of dismay.
My own character, full of self-conciousness and fear of the unknown, keeps me trapped in this factory of fools. I wander the corridors with the other ill-starred characters of this malicious play, the main actors in a production which will take years to end it’s run.
Of course things are never as bad as they seem and my mind, numb from endless repetition and barren from the lack of creative interaction with my peers reaches into a world of exaggeration, trying to spark my imagination and filling me with a passion to write down these far out thoughts and patch the mental hole through which I must pass as I enter my place of work each day.
No man is an island and whilst my workplace serves it’s purpose I wonder how long I can last in such a sterile enviroment with no hope of stimulation on the horizon. It may well be that this is it. I will keep travelling this long road until fate decides it’s time for me to drop the bundle and leave mail sorting to the unwashed masses.
If it is the case then so be it. I will bear the burden manfully and take each day as it comes and try to enjoy the better times when the monster’s belly is full and I’m not required to work and can spend those precious spare moments living life in a worthwhile vain, free of the mundane toil of workday life.
And I wonder, is it just the likes of myself, a lowly mail sorter, who spends his time lamenting his bad luck, trying to convince hinself that his break will come and thinks he is owed more than his professional life will give?
Or do others in all walks of life sit at their desks or congregate in their lunchrooms and lament the wayward turns that made this detination unavoidable?
I already know the answer.
We all would love a job where we call the shots and get by doing what we want to do. Some people have it, most don’t. But the world keeps turning for the rest of us and we get by whether we like our jobs or not. We have to. There is no other choice.
And although I whinge and whine and drive my family mad with tales of injustice in my day to day existence at work, the truth is I too will get by.
I have made a place for myself at this table and it’s provided me with all I need, a fact I often overlook.
And whilst I carry a chip on my shoulder I know I am safe here in this cloistered world and although I have not made much of it, I have been lucky to have it.
At times it seems a never ending effort, day after day, swimming against the current, trying to avoid being swept away in the rapids and thrown against the rocks.
I wonder where I fit in? Am I a square peg in a round hole? Or is the adage, “life is what you make of it”, an apt directive for how we should live and maintain our lives?
My personal life over the last five years has travelled like a ship which has traversed rough waters and found a safe harbour where passengers are warmly greeted and times are good but my working life flounders in the great ocean of misery, continually battered by storms or, alternatively, caught in the doldrums, trapped in breezeless air as the crew waits vainly for salvation which never comes.
Most of the time the satisfaction of my home life balances out the listlessness that gnaws at me through my working days. Like a wild bear it hunts me, following my scent, mile after mile, creeping closer, ever closer and I, like an unsuspecting hiker am easy prey to the giant beast.
Whilst most of the time I am stoic and get along the best I can I do from time to time wonder how I have fallen into this man trap of tedium.
Here,in my place of work, I scan the barren desert of the processing floor like a lonely Legionairre awaiting reinforcement.
No light escapes from this black hole and moments of fun and laughter are few and far between and most of those with whom I interact during the day promise me no relief from the shackles of constraint which I endure.
The quagmire which I find myself mired in is of course of my own making. Others with whom I have worked, seeing the map of life stretched out before them ending in a battle-axe block have beaten a hasty retreat and made good an escape before the sandstorm closed in again, forcing them forever into a disinteresting life, sucked clean of all pleasure, dumped in the marshes of doom.
And I remain, along with the rest of the victims, clinging precariously to a carly raft as the ship of destiny sails away with no thought to return for the pathetic survivors. No empathy, just disdain for those who care to stay, struggling in the waters of dismay.
My own character, full of self-conciousness and fear of the unknown, keeps me trapped in this factory of fools. I wander the corridors with the other ill-starred characters of this malicious play, the main actors in a production which will take years to end it’s run.
Of course things are never as bad as they seem and my mind, numb from endless repetition and barren from the lack of creative interaction with my peers reaches into a world of exaggeration, trying to spark my imagination and filling me with a passion to write down these far out thoughts and patch the mental hole through which I must pass as I enter my place of work each day.
No man is an island and whilst my workplace serves it’s purpose I wonder how long I can last in such a sterile enviroment with no hope of stimulation on the horizon. It may well be that this is it. I will keep travelling this long road until fate decides it’s time for me to drop the bundle and leave mail sorting to the unwashed masses.
If it is the case then so be it. I will bear the burden manfully and take each day as it comes and try to enjoy the better times when the monster’s belly is full and I’m not required to work and can spend those precious spare moments living life in a worthwhile vain, free of the mundane toil of workday life.
And I wonder, is it just the likes of myself, a lowly mail sorter, who spends his time lamenting his bad luck, trying to convince hinself that his break will come and thinks he is owed more than his professional life will give?
Or do others in all walks of life sit at their desks or congregate in their lunchrooms and lament the wayward turns that made this detination unavoidable?
I already know the answer.
We all would love a job where we call the shots and get by doing what we want to do. Some people have it, most don’t. But the world keeps turning for the rest of us and we get by whether we like our jobs or not. We have to. There is no other choice.
And although I whinge and whine and drive my family mad with tales of injustice in my day to day existence at work, the truth is I too will get by.
I have made a place for myself at this table and it’s provided me with all I need, a fact I often overlook.
And whilst I carry a chip on my shoulder I know I am safe here in this cloistered world and although I have not made much of it, I have been lucky to have it.
Strange Notations From a Laborious Life 