God. I hate this atrium. Red Bricks. Why? To save costs. Its square windows, some open, some whocareswhythefuck not. The occasional downstairs smokers having a “colleagued” laugh. Painful. My own colleague laughing air through his nose at some joke on his company worn laptop. He’ll call the guy from finance over just now to join in the boy chuckle. He never learnt the skill of “Forward”. My recyclical music is up to full-earphone-blast to block this all out. The atrium is stuck in my screen’s reflection. All thanks to fluorescence.
Fuck. How goddamn painfully boring. How to depress your staff in 2 easy steps:
2. Red Brick
They threw in some trees that lack any colour. Despite every Jo’burg road being Jacaranda purple. I wonder if our neighbours’ atriums have colour.
How fucking boring. Whether the allocated block of sky is blue or grey today. It doesn’t matter.
Here’s another report on another suggestion on another area on another funded worldly worry that no one will look at and only acknowledge. Sorry. Be acknowledged in. My mistake. Sorry, Boss.
God. I hate this man in the car behind me. I have tried to outdice him. And here he sidles up to me when I get stuck at the next fucking robot on this next fucking road. Seconds too late to get my meagre thrill of zooming through while auburn changes to red. Look in the rearview at just how much he detests life, his fag of a cigarette burning down with his grumbles of all the greyed people out-greying him. Why is this car in front not moving. Move goddamnit!!! I have a home of tedium to get back to! A bath to loll in. TV of fake lives to suck off. Nothingness to keep company. Greyness to doze away from. Do I dream in colour?
This is it?
Waking up to his dj nasal voice talking enough crap to push me towards the shower. Muesli. Wardrobe that I must improve upon. Traffic. Last of the company coffee. Day. Meet. Perhaps? In five minutes in…whose office is empty enough right now? Night. Feign week-regular excitement for the Wednesday, as we are all half way through our grey-soaking week. New pop song. Latest read. Christmas. Public Holiday. Wedding. Anything. Sunshine on my skin. Please. I beg for it. Wine out of the hours of allowance. Time belonging to me during "Their" purchased hours. Colour. Break.
This is it.
I feel like my face is becoming lost into an apple and a bowling hat. That Michael Stipe should be walking over my car bonnet singing about how we all hurt. I feel like I am lost in the place kids never “one day when I grew up” for. Where’s the Brad-slash-Ed’s Fight when you need it. Traffic light dozing is now on how to get out of it. To where. How. How soon? Could I do it?
Could I do it?
What would I risk? And if I didn’t risk anything will I be the housewife on lithium and emptiness sitting waiting for my man with his bowler hat to return to our cookie-cut fuck up. To droan. To forget how to dream. To be too old to leave. To don the apron and the boredom and the fag from my lips. The lover that fleets. The winebeerwhiskeyhardtac suip hidden in thrill. The pain that drips through this societal IV. Would “me” be lost in this bought-into.
How can I do it?