On the train home I overheard a conversation between two guys, early thirties, one heavy, hair matted down with sweat at the front like a little boy coming in for a drink after playing outside. The other, thin, pale and powder dry, had a hint of a British accent. They both wore suits stuffed under their coats, which reminded me of when my mother used to make me wear a snow suit to school over my clothes.
These two guys, they talked about their office jobs in a generic sort of way, but somehow you still knew what they were saying. Their words were so benign, but maybe that was part of the trouble. It was something like, "Yeah, these guys just keep putting shit into these files and then they pick them up, make their presentation and never touch them again". Whatever they said, it made just enough sense to start that dull ache in the pit of my stomach, and like drips of water, all of that joined up with the threads that had meanered their way through my fresh new job this week, and suddenly there was a current.
Its just so damn depressing to see the truth so clear and up close. It takes you out of the moment. Makes it hard to go along with things when you see we are just animals doing odd little things; copies of a copy of a copy of a copy. It's a mess. A sad performance.
I don't know, but I can tell you that it is something about this life I find incredibly lonely and hard to take. It makes that little black fleck seem like the only sensible thing in the universe.