So why should an inanimate object be so important in the grand scheme of things. I mean does it actually play an important role in our day-to-days lives to such an extent that we actually feel a connection to the place? Is everything we do just a biological process that enables this living organism to go about doing what it always does - sit there, doing nothing.
So why is this place so damn important. Is it the people? Each person has their own unique personality and quirks that allow the office to claim diversity apart from the racial and religious differences. The office, it eats away at the very fabric of my being.
How would someone go about describing this behemoth that dominates my skyline. Just mine, because the only time I can see it, is when I am standing right underneath it and it mocks me from above.
The smelly hallways make me gag. All right that's a stupid exaggeration, but it does smell damp and the walls are stained yellowish, which is accentuated by the flickering overhead lights. These are motion activated to save money. All that does is make it look as though we work in an abandoned office building during midday.
Sometimes I fantasize I'm in a zombie movie and the darkened halls hold a thousand blood-sucking zombies hidden behind doorways and darkened nooks. I sometimes have to hold in my pee for a very long time.
Hollow words echo through the walls everyday thanks to the stupid people who think they own the office, so every phone call becomes a conference call, attendees: everyone within 100 metres, I wonder how they haven't been killed by someone yet.
Each cubicles reeks of desperation. I mean this literally, some of these poor schmucks have spent up to 20 hours at a time in their little holes. Their body odour permeates every inch of the place and mix it with cheap aftershave and cigarette smoke and you get instant barf gas. Maybe that's why the carpet is a generic barf colour to help hide the stains.
Even though I have been looking for bloodstains everywhere I am yet to find an unidentifiable red blotch anywhere. I saw one, but the janitor said it was cranberry juice. Stupid idiot spoils everything.
We have windows in our office and sometimes I like to stare out and look at the city that has become my home and I miss it. All these hours spent within this prison with no bars, makes me wish I was like a bird and free to feel the air beneath my little wings. Of course I would then also run the risk of low flying planes, clear window panes and hawks. So maybe something bigger.
Each desk for each cubicle in each little corner has a story to tell. Someone had sex on their desk. Others had sex on other people's desks. Fat people ate a lot of junk at their desks. Skinny girls spilt their soy lattes and cried, because that was all they had to eat for the day. Some smoked at their desks ignoring every single objection no matter how blatant and some just left it bare, probably showing more about themselves than the fatties, anorexics and smokers combined.
My desk is in between, with some adornment, but quite devoid of personal items. I do like to put up things that I find, so old paper clips, stained notepads and used post-its litter my table. I don't have many friends you see, so this helps me cope.
Every new day, I hope for something to change. I see the same people, who say the same things and go about the same routine. Everyday now for the past decade I look for change.
Everyday I get disappointed.
I walk along these halls every day and every day people look at me with a mixture of hate and naked ambition. Sometimes it is never easy to be the boss, but then again I wouldn't be able to succeed at anything else.
So I stand here, while the office goes about its life oblivious to me, and look around hands in my pocket screaming silently. All that shows is the pain in my eyes and I put on my smile and say hello.
So why is this place so damn important. Is it the people? Each person has their own unique personality and quirks that allow the office to claim diversity apart from the racial and religious differences. The office, it eats away at the very fabric of my being.
How would someone go about describing this behemoth that dominates my skyline. Just mine, because the only time I can see it, is when I am standing right underneath it and it mocks me from above.
The smelly hallways make me gag. All right that's a stupid exaggeration, but it does smell damp and the walls are stained yellowish, which is accentuated by the flickering overhead lights. These are motion activated to save money. All that does is make it look as though we work in an abandoned office building during midday.
Sometimes I fantasize I'm in a zombie movie and the darkened halls hold a thousand blood-sucking zombies hidden behind doorways and darkened nooks. I sometimes have to hold in my pee for a very long time.
Hollow words echo through the walls everyday thanks to the stupid people who think they own the office, so every phone call becomes a conference call, attendees: everyone within 100 metres, I wonder how they haven't been killed by someone yet.
Each cubicles reeks of desperation. I mean this literally, some of these poor schmucks have spent up to 20 hours at a time in their little holes. Their body odour permeates every inch of the place and mix it with cheap aftershave and cigarette smoke and you get instant barf gas. Maybe that's why the carpet is a generic barf colour to help hide the stains.
Even though I have been looking for bloodstains everywhere I am yet to find an unidentifiable red blotch anywhere. I saw one, but the janitor said it was cranberry juice. Stupid idiot spoils everything.
We have windows in our office and sometimes I like to stare out and look at the city that has become my home and I miss it. All these hours spent within this prison with no bars, makes me wish I was like a bird and free to feel the air beneath my little wings. Of course I would then also run the risk of low flying planes, clear window panes and hawks. So maybe something bigger.
Each desk for each cubicle in each little corner has a story to tell. Someone had sex on their desk. Others had sex on other people's desks. Fat people ate a lot of junk at their desks. Skinny girls spilt their soy lattes and cried, because that was all they had to eat for the day. Some smoked at their desks ignoring every single objection no matter how blatant and some just left it bare, probably showing more about themselves than the fatties, anorexics and smokers combined.
My desk is in between, with some adornment, but quite devoid of personal items. I do like to put up things that I find, so old paper clips, stained notepads and used post-its litter my table. I don't have many friends you see, so this helps me cope.
Every new day, I hope for something to change. I see the same people, who say the same things and go about the same routine. Everyday now for the past decade I look for change.
Everyday I get disappointed.
I walk along these halls every day and every day people look at me with a mixture of hate and naked ambition. Sometimes it is never easy to be the boss, but then again I wouldn't be able to succeed at anything else.
So I stand here, while the office goes about its life oblivious to me, and look around hands in my pocket screaming silently. All that shows is the pain in my eyes and I put on my smile and say hello.
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