Lamentations of an Onlooker

Talk.

Today starts like yesterday. It starts like the day before yesterday, and the several days before that.

The chiming of an alarm bell alerts my body to attention, invoking a physical reaction ingrained from years of routine.

Beneath me, the dingy mattress creaks in sharp, shrill protests. I ignore its pitiful whining, even though I know it endures the suffocating weight of my body every night.

The tap in my bathroom sink, rusted from disuse, resists my efforts to turn the handle. I ignore its futile protests, even though it endures the mould and mildew that creeps along its insides.

When I step onto the morning train an hour later, the weary floor lets out a quiet groan. I ignore its resigned acceptance, even though I know it has endured countless beatings from rush hour.

The rest of my morning is spent in a dull stupor, blurred from the mundanity of each task.

The next time a glimpse of clarity returns, I am inside my office. Somebody is attempting to speak to me.

Almost immediately, I recognise that something is wrong. Something is different from the pre-established routine.

Their mouth is moving rapidly, forming complex sounds that do not carry any meaning. It rushes out as a nonsensical string of vowels and consonants; it initially appears coherent but lacks any true substance.

I swivel my head left, then right. My ears strain to catch the words, but their efforts are made in vain. In confusion, I open my mouth to ask for help. But by the time I have looked up, the other person is already striding away.

My eyes sweep the surrounding area, locking onto a worker who appears to have just entered. When they notice, their legs suddenly carry them away in a direction opposite to me. Every other pair of clouded eyes in the office are suddenly looking elsewhere.

Despite this jarring impediment in communication, everything else seems to be functioning as usual. My desk is the same as I left it last — the pens are sorted in containers, the keyboard is tucked neatly underneath the desktop monitor; the clipboard contains all the appropriate tasks assigned to me. There is a lightbulb hanging above the orderly space, identical to its brethren on every other desk. It has no switch; somebody turns on all the lights when they decide that it is appropriate to do so.

I shoot a furtive glance around at the workers on either side of me. The blinding light from their computers shine on their unblinking faces. My body moves to conform. The chair quietly squeaks under my weight, betraying my momentary deviance from the expected standard.

Now that their words are stripped of meaning, I find it difficult that these people have lives of their own. Do they lead monotonous, repetitive lives like me? Or is everybody living in carefree bliss, and selfish introspection is the secret to happiness?

Perhaps that isn't the only factor. I am beginning to believe that I am missing something crucial. Something that will be the key to solve the cipher that everybody is speaking. Had it always been missing?

My computer whirrs to life when I press the power button. It is not too dissimilar from me, in hindsight. It works like a loyal dog, only to receive an empty food bowl at the end of the day.

The login screen cheerfully pops up in front of me on the monitor. I instinctively reach for the keyboard to type in my login; however, another adversary stands in my way. The letters on the keyboard are ever-shifting foreign symbols, each one made of twisting lines that threaten to escape their physical restraints.

I reach for a pen and paper to substitute for this development. The fountain pen is elegant, though much of its beauty is lost when it is held in my clawed, unsophisticated hand. Eagerly, the pen anticipates meeting its fated companion — the canvas that turns its unrefined ink into meaningful ideas, thoughts, dreams.