One
It is just one of those days.
It is not a very bad day. The humidity is tolerable, the actinic glare refracts slightly. You watch the other farewells. You hope they all fare well. You realise you don't know some of them and it is now too late for that. You realise you never really knew some of them you thought you did. It is too late for regrets. It might even be too late for egrets.
And yet it is a terrible day. You do your work. You realise your work, which you thought was commonplace and somewhat dreary and maybe unintelligent, is still about twice as much as some people's. Yes, but is it better? Unfortunately, it might be. Why should you work, then? You are just being made use of, perhaps? Maybe you are a tooth fairy. People discard their ivory and you reward their toothlessness.
It is just one of those days.
It is not a very bad day. But you find yourself slipping into the morass of malaise. You find yourself as crude and crass as the next man. And maybe as the previous one too. What the hell is wrong with you? There is nothing wrong with you: instead, you are playing out your God-disappointed role as pathetic sinner and perfectly normal lousy human being. What the wrong is hell with you, you ought to ask. Pathetic.
In fact, it is a hateful day. No sooner have you arrived at home, than the dark lord makes his presence felt upon the trembling of the telephone. You burn your candle at both ends, only to find that someone removed the burning cord from the middle and you have less time than you thought you had. Somewhat irrelevantly, all you can think of is crime and punishment: you've been wicked and you will pay the price. And so, your wax wanes and your wane waxes.
It is not just one of those days.
It is also one of those nights.
It is not a very bad night. There are actually some sensible people around to talk to. You love and respect a few of them. You think that some of them ought to just go away and stop consuming the spare oxygen that hasn't already been bonded to carbon and greenhoused. And you realise that that's a cruel and arrogant thing to think. And you want so very much not to care about how stupid and nasty you are being inside your head. But you do care, you ought to be better than that. But you're not.
It then becomes a horrendous night. You waste time, still knowing that you could kill time in worse ways but that this is not a good excuse. You type out a lot of good stuff, but you know it is only good because the rest is crap. You work your ass off, creating a fundamental deficit and a negative customer base. "All your base are belong to us," you remember. You have been debased. And at 1.30 am you realise, you are working this all wrong.
It is one of those nights.
You should be asleep. None of this is worth it. Why should you care if people are getting any sleep when you're not? But you care. It's just that you would be insane to show it. Nobody would understand that underneath it all, you might be better than you have shown so far today, that you might actually be a good person. But it is easy to hide. You can always take comfort in the fact that there is none righteous, no, not one. So you can't actually be a good person anyway.
All flesh is as grass, and the glory of man? It is as the flower of grass. The grass fades and the flower falls away. Oh yes, here you are, suspended, falling away in the very next exudation of the breath of God. Fall away. Fall away. Go to, go to, you have heard enough. Banquo will not come out on his grave. There is something rotten in the state of Denmark. There is a fourth. Who is that standing next to you?
It is one. Of those nights, it is one.
It is not a very bad day. The humidity is tolerable, the actinic glare refracts slightly. You watch the other farewells. You hope they all fare well. You realise you don't know some of them and it is now too late for that. You realise you never really knew some of them you thought you did. It is too late for regrets. It might even be too late for egrets.
And yet it is a terrible day. You do your work. You realise your work, which you thought was commonplace and somewhat dreary and maybe unintelligent, is still about twice as much as some people's. Yes, but is it better? Unfortunately, it might be. Why should you work, then? You are just being made use of, perhaps? Maybe you are a tooth fairy. People discard their ivory and you reward their toothlessness.
It is just one of those days.
It is not a very bad day. But you find yourself slipping into the morass of malaise. You find yourself as crude and crass as the next man. And maybe as the previous one too. What the hell is wrong with you? There is nothing wrong with you: instead, you are playing out your God-disappointed role as pathetic sinner and perfectly normal lousy human being. What the wrong is hell with you, you ought to ask. Pathetic.
In fact, it is a hateful day. No sooner have you arrived at home, than the dark lord makes his presence felt upon the trembling of the telephone. You burn your candle at both ends, only to find that someone removed the burning cord from the middle and you have less time than you thought you had. Somewhat irrelevantly, all you can think of is crime and punishment: you've been wicked and you will pay the price. And so, your wax wanes and your wane waxes.
It is not just one of those days.
It is also one of those nights.
It is not a very bad night. There are actually some sensible people around to talk to. You love and respect a few of them. You think that some of them ought to just go away and stop consuming the spare oxygen that hasn't already been bonded to carbon and greenhoused. And you realise that that's a cruel and arrogant thing to think. And you want so very much not to care about how stupid and nasty you are being inside your head. But you do care, you ought to be better than that. But you're not.
It then becomes a horrendous night. You waste time, still knowing that you could kill time in worse ways but that this is not a good excuse. You type out a lot of good stuff, but you know it is only good because the rest is crap. You work your ass off, creating a fundamental deficit and a negative customer base. "All your base are belong to us," you remember. You have been debased. And at 1.30 am you realise, you are working this all wrong.
It is one of those nights.
You should be asleep. None of this is worth it. Why should you care if people are getting any sleep when you're not? But you care. It's just that you would be insane to show it. Nobody would understand that underneath it all, you might be better than you have shown so far today, that you might actually be a good person. But it is easy to hide. You can always take comfort in the fact that there is none righteous, no, not one. So you can't actually be a good person anyway.
All flesh is as grass, and the glory of man? It is as the flower of grass. The grass fades and the flower falls away. Oh yes, here you are, suspended, falling away in the very next exudation of the breath of God. Fall away. Fall away. Go to, go to, you have heard enough. Banquo will not come out on his grave. There is something rotten in the state of Denmark. There is a fourth. Who is that standing next to you?
It is one. Of those nights, it is one.
Labels: Day, Night, Psychology, Sadness
etched with acid at 12:17:00 am
3 Comments:
Everyone thinks cruel thoughts in their heads.. You shouldn't feel too guilty about that, just so long as you try to change your perspective of them?
I hope such nights aren't too common for you. I think people respect you a lot more than they show..
If a man is wholly cruel, he is no more than a beast, a wolf. Bereft of cruelty, a man becomes naught more than a sheep. And frightened sheep do nothing about their state save bleat on and on about how terrified they are of the troll beneath the bridge, and how terrible be the rise in the toll on the high road. The wolves merely laugh and exact their pound of flesh as they usually do, and jest amongst themselves that the sheep need not know that the troll has ever been in the wolves' employ.
Since you are neither sheep nor wolf (though betimes you might pass in the guise of the latter,) but a man, strive for a balance. Consider this: some sheep have shepherds. And in doing so, remember the Shepherd and his work and words. That road leads to Grace.
Or, as I prefer, get a playstation and work on your frustration with some truly violent and bloody games!
Grin. Want to know why I always ask you why Autolycus?
http://www.amazon.com/Take-Thief-Valdemar-Mercedes-Lackey/dp/0756400589/ref=pd_sim_b_title_2
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