Work

I'm sitting here contemplating life when I should be working. If to create is to invoke and evoke, then to destroy must be to define and describe. This is a message of destruction. The cubicle is flimsy here with a permanence that can rend your connection with humanity. It's framework is the color of old bones stained with black tea, exactly one month. The fabric stretched loosely over the frame is drab olive with a random pattern of darker olive printed on top, allowing drab olive x's and dots to show through in what must be some madman's idea of an ethnic motif. The desk is a corner unit wedged into two cubicle walls, an ill fitting contrivance made from two filing cabinet structures and matching,manufactored supports under the corner. It all goes together. The bone color is repeated everywhere.

Is this supposed to inspire me to work harder? To help those less fortunate?

Yes.

And so it does. I realize sitting here that this flimsy structure from office supply hell is surely more structurally sound than that which others live in. I am almost thankful, in my magnanimity, for my soul sucking existence. I don't help anyone directly, but perhaps obliquely. Having traded in my pittance for a chance at putting better qualified individuals in a position to directly affect the lot of others, I find myself here. It would be noble, but I am mainly working for filthy lucre. Does that make the good I do less pristine?

Absolutely yes.

Absolutely no.

Those helped could care less if I'm paid. Those helped could care less if the person in their face is paid. Those helped could care less if I exist. Another nameless shadow-figure could fill my position. Another nameless shadow-figure will take over from me. I am a nameless shadow-figure for those who have preceded me. I exist only in the obscure here.