Each morning my bowels agitate me into waking, twisting and churning, like an unwelcome poison ready to pass. My nasal cavity drives me out of bed, prepared to erupt a tank of phlegm. Stomach acids, possessing my insides like a grotesque demon lusting for release, bubble up to my throat and violently disgorged – and I sit on my porcelain throne, a pathetic version of myself.
I set out on my journey, each day, a monotonous and steady crawl from pavement to pavement, one revolving door to the next. In serried lines, row on row, drones beckoned to the chambers of isolation. The hive is abuzz with the predictable sounds of routine, the unchanging tick-tock, tick-tock of uninspired conventionality. Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock.
The mad rush from door to door, the dash from stair to seat. The sitting and standing, from one place to the next – uninspired, waiting for opportunity. Praying and yearning for the sudden reveal, the troll behind the pale who would pull aside the curtain – but the tragedy continues and we forget ourselves. We take this seriously.
Tick-tock, tick-tock. Somehow duped by the complexity of it all, the smog of industry settles over us, creating a haze that conceals and distorts our perception. The vast cosmological tapestry, the deep and bewildering gravity inviting our recognition, is overshadowed by the ruckus and racket of fanciful human preoccupations. Layer upon layer, a mound of Man’s refuse grows upon itself like a heaping imperishable mountain.
Beneath that mountain, and encircled by the haze of city smog, lies the only thing that matters: A nameless thing entangled with the subtle music of the heart. The binding agent, devoid of power and ambition, unfettered by the slow decay or artificial urgency of time, the momentary awakening that sparks an instance of terrifying elation – yet is quickly suppressed and drowned out by shallow distractions.
Desperately, I cling to the trampled dirt beneath the haze of city smog, and at the foot of that refuse mountain. I am flanked, on all sides, by the madness of industry and the mindless rat-race to the bottom. Straight through I walk with blinders on, and under my breath I whisper: “resist.”