Confessions of an Unknown Worker #7

Vol. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6

It was so quiet that you could hear the ambient humming of the air conditioning in the hall. It would've continued to go under the radar had no one asked "is it raining outside?" "No", except the moment I answered, I realized I wasn't sure.

In quantum world, particles change their behavior when being observed. And they warp from a place to another. Or does it just seem like it when we cannot observe them without affecting them? I don't know, I'm not the scientist – even they don't fully agree what's going on with this stuff.
Meanwhile thinking of the cat in the cardboard box – to be or not to be (or both?) – I swear I could've heard the rain, and wondered whether the rain appeared just because of my observance.

A rustling letter would slide inbetween as a reminder how the lively leafs were soon about to fall to the ground. The dry cellulose of a letter was just a distant relative to its cousin in its original form. What this new material was, was undoubtedly more practical, thanks for the industrial efforts of the past generations, but at the same time it felt like it had lost something on the process.
Day after day I was dealing with dead material. Organic, but not alive. There's dead animal on my plate. Whether that is a problem, I'm shutting my eyes from – there's only so much weight a single human can carry. I was having enough with the cellulose mixture. This is the narrative I'm telling myself at least.

Magazines with horses – I'm riding my seat like one, with a healthy posture like a hairdresser at work. Though my fingers are not handling keratin fibers, but processed wood – very thin slices of processed wood that I cannot help but wonder how does it keep itself together.
My gloves have almost worn out on finger tips. At that point I realize how days have blended together including the mail: I try to remember a particular cover, but they all just blur together like an abstract painting. The more details I try to pull, the more apparent it becomes that it is not supposed to project any specific message. I admit: sometimes the yellow press manages to lure my sight to their headlines of celebrities who've been romping with Mister X. Mister X was insignificant though, because the attractive features of Miss Y kidnap my eyes like a fisherman having his prey on the hook. "Damnit! They got me again."

A trolley would break my meditation and direct my attention back to myself after losing the leash on my monkey mind. I look the weary faces that despite being stuck here, have started to wear down like an oil painting with too little viscosity that in my mind quickly gets an expressionist form like in 'The Scream'.

My fingers are bruised. Lifting my sight, I see blood: every letter I've touched is covered with red fingerprints. In panic I try to wipe it with my shirt, but the more I wipe, the more it seems to come. Nothing will stop the bleeding, yet nobody helps me as if I'm just a consumable in the Alibi magazine, a picture for brief moment of entertainment.

I shake this horror image from my head, disguising it as a stretching break for my stiff muscles that suddenly make themselves known despite having sat for two hours unbeknownst of them. Riding horses must be hard work.