Darkness…just darkness. Yet something was changing, tiny cracks appeared in the ai-
PAIN! Burning…agonizing...PAIN! Searing, flashing, crawling through her nerves, tearing at her soul! A thousand knives, a hundred bee stings, nothing could compare to this. Every fiber of her body was aflame, every sense in turmoil, every thought consumed in chaos. Her memories swirled, like broken wrecks in the storm, occasionally flashing out at her, dragging her into their midst…
Flash
--------------------------------------------------------------
“Happy birthday to you…happy birthday to you…”
The song stopped, as the gathered people erupted into cheers. There upon the marble table was an enormous chocolate cake, crowned with candles, cream and strawberries spilling over the sides. A little girl sat behind the massive wall of confectionary, her face partially obscured by the sheer size of the cake.
“Smile dear!”
Flash
--------------------------------------------------------------
The pain was back, stabbing through the fog in her mind. It wasn’t as intense, thankfully, but her entire body still felt like it had went through a very blunt blending machine. She could feel her limbs now, and judging from the dull aches she was receiving most of her body was still intact. Yet she couldn’t move. Her muscles wouldn’t respond. Neither would her eyes, or her face. Her whole body was numb, numb from the pain.
Yet this meant one thing: she was alive. She couldn’t move, but she was still alive. She could wait. She could think. Yet…yet the question remained;
Who was she?
--------------------------------------------------------------
The same little girl again, except that her soft young face seemed somewhat older and paler, while beads of sweat encrusted her brow. The girl’s eyes fluttered open at the sounds of her approach, accompanied by a barely audible groan.
“Still sick?”
“Mrmmhm”
“Poor dear. Here, have some chicken soup,” a hand…her hand(?) reached out with the bowl. In the memory, she was speaking:
“Keeps the body healthy and strong”
“Mrmmf…*sslurp*”
“Feeling better?”
“Mmm…*slurp*” a tiny nod and a smile.
“That’s good. Still have the lucky bracelet I gave you?”
“Mhm…*slurp*” a small silver chain flashed in the fading evening’s light. The string of letters gleamed: To Kim, <3 from Mom
“Then you’d be fine. Sleep well dear,” she made to close the door…
“Mm..mom?”
Pause.
“D’ya think that some day, if you’re ill I could *cough* look after you too?”
Miranda smiled. Kids these days…
“Heh, why not? But you still need to get well first. Goodnight sweetie.”
“G’night”
Flash
--------------------------------------------------------------
Miranda. She remembered her name now. Miranda. And her daughter…
Kim…it was her birthday three days ago. Just three days ago. The bracelet was a gift…or had it been more than three days? How long had she been out?
Explosions. Screams. A blinding light…
The panic rose in her, like an ugly tide threatening to overrun the shore, yet she had no way of showing it. Her body was still paralyzed, unmoving, and unresponsive to her mental commands to scream, to shake, to simply break down and cry. The shelter had been ready but they had been too slow…
She could feel now though. Her sense of touch had returned, bringing with it full awareness of the pain and aches that wracked her body, and the occasional hallucination: the feeling of another person’s soft touch, a sense of contact that she barely felt, somewhere at the edge of consciousness, the feeling of someone holding her up…
Flash
--------------------------------------------------------------
The Air Sirens blared, though their screams arrived too late. Miranda was the first to react, grabbing the nearest two boxes of provisions and running into the basement shelter where they would be protected, surrounded by its blast-proof walls.
“KIM!” she screamed, throwing the last of the water into the corner, “forget the rest of the food! Get into the shelter NOW!”
There was a series of loud thunks as her daughter dropped what she was carrying and hurdled down the stairs. The pattering of her feet echoed off the wooden steps, only to be drowned out by the sudden hum of airplanes overhead...
“KIM!” she cried, her voice masked by the soft whistling sound in the background, growing louder…louder…
Miranda screamed, as the world exploded in a flurry of noise and light.
--------------------------------------------------------------
“...AAAAAAAAAH-”
Pain. Too much pain. Before, she had been like a disconnected server, detached and removed. Now it was like someone had reconnected a cable, sending a flood of information through her senses, overloading her fragile mind.
The explosion. Bricks flying apart. Fire, smoke and light. Brilliant, blazing light. Cries. Destruction. Light, then darkness. And her daughter, still halfway down the stairway, still trying to make it to safety...fading away…
She felt herself being lifted, felt a cool hand sooth her back, holding her tight. Her screaming stopped as her lungs ran out of air. Almost immediately a warm bowl was pressed against her lips before Miranda could gather air for another round. Her emotions raged against the interruption, roaring to get free.
Gradually, her breathing slowed. The bowl still remained, held steady by an unseen hand.
Miranda relaxed.
The bowl shifted slightly, causing a thick, hot liquid to seep through her teeth. Only then was Miranda made aware of how hungry she was. Swallowing was painful, but somehow, she managed it. One gulp. Two gulps. She could feel the warmth spreading through her limbs, breathing life into their cells.
It was soup. Chicken soup in fact. Half-cooked with lumps of preservatives still floating in the broth, but soup nonetheless. Miranda felt her being slowly laid down onto what seemed to be a mattress of sorts, as she gradually drifted back to sleep…
Flash
--------------------------------------------------------------
No one was sure about how the war had started. Some say it was the economy, having finally fallen apart after years of patches and billion-dollar injection funds. Others say it was the terrorists, or North Korea, or even Armageddon. Either way, the outcome was the same. Biotechnology, nuclear power…forces once used for production and protection, turned into weapons of mass destruction.
The sirens had come too late. By the time the two of them had reached the base the bombers were already overhead. She had been deep inside, shielded by the stacks of food and water, wrapped in a bio-hazard blanket. But her daughter…
Her mind retreated, pulling away from the memory like a frightened dog, instinctively trying to avoid the pain and sorrow she felt. Instead, Miranda distracted herself with the outside world, focusing on the texture of the mattress, the coolness of the air, the warmth of someone’s body…
Someone was next to her. Someone small. Dimly she knew that this was the same someone who had been feeding her. The same someone who had been watching over her all this while.
Someone was shaking. Crying. Whispering words she could not hear.
Something hot ran down her waist and onto the cold, hard floor.
Miranda didn’t need to think. Her body simply reacted. Despite the pain, despite the effort it took to lift just one little finger, Miranda slowly lifted her arm, bringing it over Someone’s back, her fingers brushing against it, soothingly, lovingly…
The shaking stopped. The whisperings ceased, to be replaced by a soft, shallow breathing. Hair, said her fingers. No, too long for hair. Almost like fur…
Comforted and comforting, Miranda let herself go, drifting slowly back to sleep...
--------------------------------------------------------------
“Hey,” the voice was rough, authoritative, “Hey! You still alive?”
Miranda awoke, to a blinding light. The events of the past few…days…weeks (?) flowed through her mind, pieces fitting together like a simple puzzle being put together at last.
Gradually, as the glow faded to tolerable levels, Miranda looked franctically around, trying to figure where she was. Before her were three men in bio-warfare suits, masks and all. Two of them were carrying guns, while the third was unarmed with one hand grasped on her shoulder, trying to shake her awake.
“Wha-” her voice cracked, as she swallowed and tried again. “What happened?”
She was in the shelter, or so it seemed. The entire front wall where the door was had been blasted to pieces. Piles of twisted metal, mortar and blackened stone framed the entrance, blocking it completely, save for a single small hole by the side. What once had been her basement…was now a smoking mixture of steel and rubble.
“Yer town got a double-whammy the other day,” continued the Suit, tapping on its wrist screen, “First a Rubblemaker to clear out the buildings, then sort sorta bio-weapon. Good thing you were in the basement when the first one hit. I reckon the debris protected ya from the second strike. Really nasty stuff that turned people into friggin mutants, would y’believe it? Bloody things caused even more damage…”
Her eyes were drawn to where two other men in bio-hazard suits were standing around a large mass of fur. Looking closely, it seemed vaguely humanoid in shape…
“…found yer half-buried in this house here, funny thing is that it seemed part of the wall’ere had collapsed see, only that that creature over there somehow managed to dig through with only its claws. Tis lucky that we got to you then, no telling what them mutants might have been trying to do, with their…”
Miranda would have continued listening, if the words had mattered, but somehow they didn’t. Nothing seemed to matter at that point. The voice faded. The background faded. The numbness returned, with doubled intensity, all dams now broken, all currents thoroughly released. Some part of her was aware that she was crying now, that the paramedic was trying to console her, but Miranda did not care…
One by one the walls and debris fell away, consumed by darkness, as the scene drew her in, filling her entire view. The world consisted of only two things: Herself…
…and the small silver bracelet on the furred creature’s hand.
--------------------------------------------------------------
--------------------------------------------------------------
Sometimes when I sleep these scenes tear through my mind, like some sort of drug-fueled emotional high, leaving me breathless and numb in the middle of the night.
Was there any point to this? I don't know. I guess I just wanted to share.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Seeding Compassion
The cold air greets me like an arctic gale,
hurriedly I pull on my sweater,
smirking at the cyclists outside
sweltering in the tropical heat.
Community service
is hard work;
To think we spent two whole hours
planting nothing but trees.
As I snuggle into the soft bus chairs,
the small black box flickers
importing scenes from overseas:
a news reports, monotone,
about the hundreds of seeds sown via air
in an attempt reforest the jungles-
NEWSFLASH
Disaster strikes!
Sudden flood claims the lives of two hundred people!
Shock.
I pull out my labtop, and in a manner of minutes
type out a post on my blog
lamenting their deaths:
Such a horrible thing
isn't it? We'd send aid of course, seeing as
it didn't happen here;
Perhaps we could plant some trees?
Newsflash over, the screen resumes
the constant complaints of a hundred environmentalists:
"For every hundred trees they chop
a thousand seeds are sown
yet less than ten of those survive..."
Yada, yada, never satisfied.
The stop arrives, and in stepping off-
A sudden stench!
I back away
at the smell from the old woman's rags
as she potters along
her shopping bag filled
with half-eaten discards from the nearby bin.
God, doesn't she ever take a bath?
hurriedly I pull on my sweater,
smirking at the cyclists outside
sweltering in the tropical heat.
Community service
is hard work;
To think we spent two whole hours
planting nothing but trees.
As I snuggle into the soft bus chairs,
the small black box flickers
importing scenes from overseas:
a news reports, monotone,
about the hundreds of seeds sown via air
in an attempt reforest the jungles-
NEWSFLASH
Disaster strikes!
Sudden flood claims the lives of two hundred people!
Shock.
I pull out my labtop, and in a manner of minutes
type out a post on my blog
lamenting their deaths:
Such a horrible thing
isn't it? We'd send aid of course, seeing as
it didn't happen here;
Perhaps we could plant some trees?
Newsflash over, the screen resumes
the constant complaints of a hundred environmentalists:
"For every hundred trees they chop
a thousand seeds are sown
yet less than ten of those survive..."
Yada, yada, never satisfied.
The stop arrives, and in stepping off-
A sudden stench!
I back away
at the smell from the old woman's rags
as she potters along
her shopping bag filled
with half-eaten discards from the nearby bin.
God, doesn't she ever take a bath?
Sunday, May 3, 2009
Once Cracked Vase
Beautiful, beautiful
the once cracked vase, the
once-had perfection, its surface
now a dichotomy of patterns against the other;
Contrast.
Ordered flowers against spider-web chaos,
painfully beautiful, painstakingly precise.
I made it once, back
when I was what I was, still unsure,
painting over cracks
in my own flesh and bone. Small wonder
that it broke
its materials being the same, the bad tool
blames the workman.
A net to catch water, a glass to catch light;
So what if function it does not serve?
Shattered into fragments, yet still I shall
piece it together
with a Creator's love.
the once cracked vase, the
once-had perfection, its surface
now a dichotomy of patterns against the other;
Contrast.
Ordered flowers against spider-web chaos,
painfully beautiful, painstakingly precise.
I made it once, back
when I was what I was, still unsure,
painting over cracks
in my own flesh and bone. Small wonder
that it broke
its materials being the same, the bad tool
blames the workman.
A net to catch water, a glass to catch light;
So what if function it does not serve?
Shattered into fragments, yet still I shall
piece it together
with a Creator's love.
Saturday, April 18, 2009
The need to be AWARE
Since the whole online community's talking about this, I might as well join the herd.
***WARNING: RANT :WARNING****
What bothers me the most is not that the new leadership seems rather...unstable, or that Singapore's civil society is shifting. What bothers me the most is that this was a coup...in a non-profit organisation.
I'm an idealist at times, and this is one of them. A charity. Granted, there'll be office politics and organisational strife anyway, but still, a freaking coup?
What ever happened to the whole idea of joining a charity because you believe in its cause?
And don't give me that bull about how they believed in its cause so much that they decided to TAKE OVER THE WHOLE THING. You know. To keep it safe.
Kinda like how Japan was keeping Singapore safe for those evil British colonist bastards, eh?
I can understand a coup in some MNO. Or a uber-large company. Or in politics. Politics is all about coups after all. And quality home video entertaining (teh scandals! teh scandals!)
But a coup in a charity organisation dedicated to advocating women's rights? Why do I get the impression that the spirit of the organisation has died?
*whisper*
Oh right. Thanks invisible-ninja-on-my-shoulder. Because reading the wonderfully concise reply by the organisation, it seems they couped because they were "ready for it".
Any particularly strong views? Something that they felt really needed to be changed or done? Problems with the old management? Nope. Just stuff about their qualifications, and speculation about whether the old guard had any inner motives.
Qualifications!? The most important qualification needed for a charity organisation is the heart. And if you want to qualify for the heart, show it to me through dedicated service. Work for the company for ten years, prove yourself a dedicated member and if you still believe in your cause, then by all means, you have earned the right to implement it. Because you have shown heart.
But if you somehow lost it along the way, or are too scared to let your views be known even after taking over the organisation then well, your belief probably was never really that strong in the first place, was it?
RANT ENDS HERE
Just a last note to summarise: All in all, it is when the people running a charity organisation dedicated to helping others displaces the top management simply for their own selfish desires that I begin to get worried.
***WARNING: RANT :WARNING****
What bothers me the most is not that the new leadership seems rather...unstable, or that Singapore's civil society is shifting. What bothers me the most is that this was a coup...in a non-profit organisation.
I'm an idealist at times, and this is one of them. A charity. Granted, there'll be office politics and organisational strife anyway, but still, a freaking coup?
What ever happened to the whole idea of joining a charity because you believe in its cause?
And don't give me that bull about how they believed in its cause so much that they decided to TAKE OVER THE WHOLE THING. You know. To keep it safe.
Kinda like how Japan was keeping Singapore safe for those evil British colonist bastards, eh?
I can understand a coup in some MNO. Or a uber-large company. Or in politics. Politics is all about coups after all. And quality home video entertaining (teh scandals! teh scandals!)
But a coup in a charity organisation dedicated to advocating women's rights? Why do I get the impression that the spirit of the organisation has died?
*whisper*
Oh right. Thanks invisible-ninja-on-my-shoulder. Because reading the wonderfully concise reply by the organisation, it seems they couped because they were "ready for it".
Any particularly strong views? Something that they felt really needed to be changed or done? Problems with the old management? Nope. Just stuff about their qualifications, and speculation about whether the old guard had any inner motives.
Qualifications!? The most important qualification needed for a charity organisation is the heart. And if you want to qualify for the heart, show it to me through dedicated service. Work for the company for ten years, prove yourself a dedicated member and if you still believe in your cause, then by all means, you have earned the right to implement it. Because you have shown heart.
But if you somehow lost it along the way, or are too scared to let your views be known even after taking over the organisation then well, your belief probably was never really that strong in the first place, was it?
RANT ENDS HERE
Just a last note to summarise: All in all, it is when the people running a charity organisation dedicated to helping others displaces the top management simply for their own selfish desires that I begin to get worried.
Friday, April 17, 2009
Scrapbook
I saw an old man in the Park with a pair of shears. His worn brown cloak seemed to billow in the wind, even as he carefully and tenderly cut the stem of a beautiful, fully bloomed sunflower.
*snip*
A little girl, barely three years of age ran past, giggling as a large, furry brown dog (a labrador?) chased after her. The two of them ran, round and round the park benches, until at last the young child collasped onto the grass in exhaustion, laughing with joy as her dog slobbered slimy drool all over her soft, young face.
Nearby, a family was having a picnic; father, mother and their two sons eating heartily out of a woven thatch basket. Next to them sat grandfather, watched over by a nurse, his bloodstream was fed carefully from an IV drip hanging by his side. Then the youngest son, a toddler of five, waddled over to his grandda: chubby arms outstretched with a small sandwich grasped inbetween. With a slow shake and a smile, the grandfather declined the offer, patting his grandson on the cheek.
*snip*
A sudden gust nearly caught me off guard, sending rolls of old newspaper tumbling across the pavement. The old man grasped his hat, straining against the wind. Far beyond in the open fields a young boy suddenly lost control of his kite; its green and yellow striped form crashing into the trees. An old lady, bent over with a walking stick, hobbled over to the crying boy with a napkin in her hands, and kind words upon her lips.
Five kids dashing from tree to tree in a myriad pattern of their own devising, giggling, laughing and cheering as they raced. Round and round the park they went, so reckless in their play that one of them tripped, slamming face down into the soft mud of the earth. Sitting up, the young boy smiled, even as the remaining four of his friends turned around to help him up.
*snip*
The wind had stopped now, as the old man resumed his collecting. A fresh pink flower fell from its branch, only to be caught gently by a pair of pale, wrinkled hands, its petals carefully gathered and pressed into a small black scrapbook hanging by the old man's side. So far he has collected nearly a hundred different petals - some similiar, some different, some belonging to different species, some from the same plant. All of them breathtakingly beautiful, in their own special way.
He sighs, brushing the cover of his scrapbook with a glitter in his eye. With loving care he places the book and its precious contents into a dirty green haversack, smiling in delight at a good day's work.
I too, close my book, pencil and pen returning to the case with a slight snap. The tiny leather-bound tome is slotted into the left pocket of my backpack, while the stationary case enters the right.
Wrapping his cloak around him, the old man leaves, exiting through the wrough-iron gates by the side. I make to do the same, as we both turn back in perfect synchrony for one final glance at the Park. Taking in all its beauty, one last time.
The old man leaves through the wrought iron gates, returning back to the smokey streets and grey-soaked landscapes of society. I watch him as he does so, unwilling to leave so soon, yet fully aware that the Park will close in time. Each step takes him further away, dimmer and dimmer, till all that could be seen was the outline of his brown tattered cloak flapping in the dust-laden breeze.
Yet I know, no matter gloom or pain, no matter or shadow or fog; for as long as he carries that scrapbook a piece of the Park shall always remain with him.
A beacon throughout the storms of life.
*snip*
*snip*
A little girl, barely three years of age ran past, giggling as a large, furry brown dog (a labrador?) chased after her. The two of them ran, round and round the park benches, until at last the young child collasped onto the grass in exhaustion, laughing with joy as her dog slobbered slimy drool all over her soft, young face.
Nearby, a family was having a picnic; father, mother and their two sons eating heartily out of a woven thatch basket. Next to them sat grandfather, watched over by a nurse, his bloodstream was fed carefully from an IV drip hanging by his side. Then the youngest son, a toddler of five, waddled over to his grandda: chubby arms outstretched with a small sandwich grasped inbetween. With a slow shake and a smile, the grandfather declined the offer, patting his grandson on the cheek.
*snip*
A sudden gust nearly caught me off guard, sending rolls of old newspaper tumbling across the pavement. The old man grasped his hat, straining against the wind. Far beyond in the open fields a young boy suddenly lost control of his kite; its green and yellow striped form crashing into the trees. An old lady, bent over with a walking stick, hobbled over to the crying boy with a napkin in her hands, and kind words upon her lips.
Five kids dashing from tree to tree in a myriad pattern of their own devising, giggling, laughing and cheering as they raced. Round and round the park they went, so reckless in their play that one of them tripped, slamming face down into the soft mud of the earth. Sitting up, the young boy smiled, even as the remaining four of his friends turned around to help him up.
*snip*
The wind had stopped now, as the old man resumed his collecting. A fresh pink flower fell from its branch, only to be caught gently by a pair of pale, wrinkled hands, its petals carefully gathered and pressed into a small black scrapbook hanging by the old man's side. So far he has collected nearly a hundred different petals - some similiar, some different, some belonging to different species, some from the same plant. All of them breathtakingly beautiful, in their own special way.
He sighs, brushing the cover of his scrapbook with a glitter in his eye. With loving care he places the book and its precious contents into a dirty green haversack, smiling in delight at a good day's work.
I too, close my book, pencil and pen returning to the case with a slight snap. The tiny leather-bound tome is slotted into the left pocket of my backpack, while the stationary case enters the right.
Wrapping his cloak around him, the old man leaves, exiting through the wrough-iron gates by the side. I make to do the same, as we both turn back in perfect synchrony for one final glance at the Park. Taking in all its beauty, one last time.
The old man leaves through the wrought iron gates, returning back to the smokey streets and grey-soaked landscapes of society. I watch him as he does so, unwilling to leave so soon, yet fully aware that the Park will close in time. Each step takes him further away, dimmer and dimmer, till all that could be seen was the outline of his brown tattered cloak flapping in the dust-laden breeze.
Yet I know, no matter gloom or pain, no matter or shadow or fog; for as long as he carries that scrapbook a piece of the Park shall always remain with him.
A beacon throughout the storms of life.
*snip*
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Death and Taxes
I suppose it was all good really, during the first sixty-eight years or so. Stable job, good pay and a comfortable working space - so what if I was bonded to the government? The economy was poor, I wasn’t ambitious and the country was safe. A golden offer it seemed, back then.
It was mostly paperwork during the early years. Got promoted to Senior File Manager where I was fifty-one, along with a few extra feet to my cubicle. Boring work, long hours, but hey, it was all for the retirement plan, yes? Save up; buy a yacht, a house by the sea...
Then came the plane crash.
It was a business flight. My first in thirty years. Go figure, huh? The government dragged what was left of my charred remains and put my brain on life support. They re-grew about half my vital organs, fixed a couple of bones and liver problems, and overall had me coming out of the Re-Vita-Tank fitter, healthier and definitely much better than I was before. I had been so amazed, so grateful to be alive again...
Until I found out that they paid for it using my retirement scheme.
Apparently there exists some sort of clause in my bond that basically amounts to a highly formalized and technical version of “till death do us part”. Except that today, what with all the breakthroughs in genetic and nanotechnology, it is they who decide when one can....pass on. And they get to use our money to do so as well. Apparently it’s considered one of the duties of a responsible employee to keep himself in good, working condition. It said so on the contract.
So I got stuck there in my cubicle for another twenty-three years, at least until I earn enough to repay the cost of my medical treatments. Somewhere around the age of a ninety, my heart gave out. So they replaced it with a metal one, along with the full set of annual screenings and charged it straight to my account.
Five years for the heart, five months each year for the screenings. I’ve been working day and night, overtime and off-time, and still my numbers are in the negatives. And the funny thing? The more I worked, the more help I actually needed. Too much stress caused high blood pressure, lack of sleep caused all sorts of mental imbalances in my brain. There came a point where the government paramedics had to tranquilize me in my cubicle just to get me down to the psychiatrist. Therapy sessions on stress and self control. All sorts of fancy drugs and tiny monitors to keep in check my mental aptitude. I woke up each day feeling absolutely great; happy and enthusiastic for work.
Good working condition, all the time.
It reached a point where I contemplated suicide. The minute the monitors picked up the sudden spike in my brain they immediately flooded my system with all manner of happy drugs. I spent the next five minutes staring at the wall, smiling. Ever since then I’ve kept careful track of my thoughts. I couldn’t lose another five minutes like that again. It lost me 0.0147% of my Medi-Monitor Fund in opportunity cost.
The last strategy I tried almost worked. By that time I had spent about one hundred and fifty (or was it sixty?) years in the Filing department. I'd had enough. Of course, I didn’t let that thought stay. I played with it, let it slip through my mind, little moments that flitted away before the monitor could pick up any major irrational spike. In those moments, over the course of the years, I put together a plan. Little things, like a laser-powered Auto-cutter, placed next to my deck for the really tough papers. Careful and discrete noting of the various schedules, and observations of the various “checks” they made on the cubicles that I ingrained into muscle memory.
Then the day came. A small window of opportunity, barely five seconds long. More than enough to lift the laser-cutter to my brain and slice through the neurons. There were still parts of the brain they couldn’t quite fix yet. If I managed to get a good clean shot through the prefrontal cortex I’ll be effectively dead. But then I had to go and do something stupid.
I hesitated. And in that brief two seconds of contemplation the monitors sounded the alarm. Neurotoxins paralyzed my limbs and motor functions, while a fine mist of sleeping gas filled my cubicle. By the time I came to, it was far too late. They demoted me, added the cost of the sleeping gas, and packed me straight back to work.
Good working condition. All. The. Time.
It’s been nearly two hundred years now. I’m still working there, still trying to pay my debts. So long as I owe them money, they’d never let me go. It’s in the contract. I heard that nowadays, if anyone tried what I did fifty years ago they’d be Deboded – their brains extracted yet kept alive to be used as temporary processing space for the organic computers. And memory is just so cheap nowadays...
I write this account mostly because it helps me keep track of things. It also helps prevent me from going insane. I’m afraid if they ever detect another hormonal imbalance in my brain they’d Debod me and stick my head in a jar. So I write, just a few words at a time. Just short enough to escape notice.
I’ve not left my cubicle in what...twenty? Thirty years? I’ve not seen the sky, or the stars, or what passes for the soil these days. Food, drink and drugs are fed directly into my bloodstream. Sleep is a memory, something frivolous that only the rich could buy. Back when times were tough, my dad used to say that he could never afford to rest. But I-
I can never afford to die.
It was mostly paperwork during the early years. Got promoted to Senior File Manager where I was fifty-one, along with a few extra feet to my cubicle. Boring work, long hours, but hey, it was all for the retirement plan, yes? Save up; buy a yacht, a house by the sea...
Then came the plane crash.
It was a business flight. My first in thirty years. Go figure, huh? The government dragged what was left of my charred remains and put my brain on life support. They re-grew about half my vital organs, fixed a couple of bones and liver problems, and overall had me coming out of the Re-Vita-Tank fitter, healthier and definitely much better than I was before. I had been so amazed, so grateful to be alive again...
Until I found out that they paid for it using my retirement scheme.
Apparently there exists some sort of clause in my bond that basically amounts to a highly formalized and technical version of “till death do us part”. Except that today, what with all the breakthroughs in genetic and nanotechnology, it is they who decide when one can....pass on. And they get to use our money to do so as well. Apparently it’s considered one of the duties of a responsible employee to keep himself in good, working condition. It said so on the contract.
So I got stuck there in my cubicle for another twenty-three years, at least until I earn enough to repay the cost of my medical treatments. Somewhere around the age of a ninety, my heart gave out. So they replaced it with a metal one, along with the full set of annual screenings and charged it straight to my account.
Five years for the heart, five months each year for the screenings. I’ve been working day and night, overtime and off-time, and still my numbers are in the negatives. And the funny thing? The more I worked, the more help I actually needed. Too much stress caused high blood pressure, lack of sleep caused all sorts of mental imbalances in my brain. There came a point where the government paramedics had to tranquilize me in my cubicle just to get me down to the psychiatrist. Therapy sessions on stress and self control. All sorts of fancy drugs and tiny monitors to keep in check my mental aptitude. I woke up each day feeling absolutely great; happy and enthusiastic for work.
Good working condition, all the time.
It reached a point where I contemplated suicide. The minute the monitors picked up the sudden spike in my brain they immediately flooded my system with all manner of happy drugs. I spent the next five minutes staring at the wall, smiling. Ever since then I’ve kept careful track of my thoughts. I couldn’t lose another five minutes like that again. It lost me 0.0147% of my Medi-Monitor Fund in opportunity cost.
The last strategy I tried almost worked. By that time I had spent about one hundred and fifty (or was it sixty?) years in the Filing department. I'd had enough. Of course, I didn’t let that thought stay. I played with it, let it slip through my mind, little moments that flitted away before the monitor could pick up any major irrational spike. In those moments, over the course of the years, I put together a plan. Little things, like a laser-powered Auto-cutter, placed next to my deck for the really tough papers. Careful and discrete noting of the various schedules, and observations of the various “checks” they made on the cubicles that I ingrained into muscle memory.
Then the day came. A small window of opportunity, barely five seconds long. More than enough to lift the laser-cutter to my brain and slice through the neurons. There were still parts of the brain they couldn’t quite fix yet. If I managed to get a good clean shot through the prefrontal cortex I’ll be effectively dead. But then I had to go and do something stupid.
I hesitated. And in that brief two seconds of contemplation the monitors sounded the alarm. Neurotoxins paralyzed my limbs and motor functions, while a fine mist of sleeping gas filled my cubicle. By the time I came to, it was far too late. They demoted me, added the cost of the sleeping gas, and packed me straight back to work.
Good working condition. All. The. Time.
It’s been nearly two hundred years now. I’m still working there, still trying to pay my debts. So long as I owe them money, they’d never let me go. It’s in the contract. I heard that nowadays, if anyone tried what I did fifty years ago they’d be Deboded – their brains extracted yet kept alive to be used as temporary processing space for the organic computers. And memory is just so cheap nowadays...
I write this account mostly because it helps me keep track of things. It also helps prevent me from going insane. I’m afraid if they ever detect another hormonal imbalance in my brain they’d Debod me and stick my head in a jar. So I write, just a few words at a time. Just short enough to escape notice.
I’ve not left my cubicle in what...twenty? Thirty years? I’ve not seen the sky, or the stars, or what passes for the soil these days. Food, drink and drugs are fed directly into my bloodstream. Sleep is a memory, something frivolous that only the rich could buy. Back when times were tough, my dad used to say that he could never afford to rest. But I-
I can never afford to die.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Seeds of Thought
Where do I stand in this world?
A friend once commented that I'm easily distracted. My response was that the world had much to be distracted by. It was a retort made without thinking, yet sometimes it is the heart that answers best.
So many times we try to define where we are. Define who we are. At our age, at our currnet minds, it is a dangerous, fragile phrase. Everyone knows that these 5 years will be the ones that shape us the most. It is when we as people are most malleable, most unsure, most open to learning and teaching, and daring to tread new waters.
The world has much to be distracted by. So many influences, so many things. Perhaps it is the influence of too much literature, or stories, or just TOK, but I see meaning in almost everything. Patterns upon patterns, symbols within symbols, each repeating, folding, dancing together in the light.
So many influences, and the greatest tragedy is how we must shut ourselves to most of them. I think our greatest depression, my greatest depression at least, is the inability to reach. There is so much out there, so much beauty and power and strength, and we humans in our limited, flawed capacity cannot hope to reach it. It is the tragedy that causes us to turn into ourselves. To blame ourselves for not being as high as the stars, as perfect as the angels, as wonderous as the concepts that our minds and souls can dream and create, yet never reach.
It is the closing of the mind that pains me. That we must all do so, for sanity, for efficiency, for function. To open our minds to the universe and all its glory would leave us wallowing in our insignificance, our own weakness and fragility. We are forced, by neccessity, to pick only what is relevant.
And thus we begin to judge.
Because we are forced to judge, to contemplate the idea of importance, of priority, things are no longer pure. Life is fluid, changing, wonderfully changing, the same way a waterfall is mesmerising, the same way the falling stars and singing wind are beautiful. Moving, eternally moving and changing, always different yet somehow, remaining the same.
Siddhartha? Yea. Go ahead and feel put off by it.
All my pain, my suffering comes from the imposing of structure. We are needed to read these books, to score these marks, to reach these goals. And thus it is no longer growth, no longer flow, but a pressure, a suction - a dragging of chains bound around our souls as they struggle in other directions.
It is faster, safer, and more productive. And because of this humankind feels the eternal angst of not knowing their purpose, not knowing what they need.
I thought I broke out of the system. Of the competitive rubrics and judgments and endless targets. Now I see that all I did was impose a different set of rubrics, one based around originality, around creativity, a measurement of how immeasurable something was.
Heh.
Its so funny, yet so depressing at same time.
No more goals. No more schedules. Let me try that. Let me try to feel life. Feel its wave and motion, its tides and currents, its song, its surf, and all the fish in its depth.
Somepart I suppose, would need to remain an anchor. But no more judgement. No more competition. Just growth, growth for the sake of growth, for the delight of it. For the joy of the sky, the morning sun, the new seeds, the blooming flowers that fade away yet are renewed each dawn, as their petals are mourned and remembered each dusk.
Everyone says to live life for its own sake. That's incorrect. Life for its own sake never changes, never moves. Why do we keep insisting in living our lives and pace?
Let Life live you instead.
A friend once commented that I'm easily distracted. My response was that the world had much to be distracted by. It was a retort made without thinking, yet sometimes it is the heart that answers best.
So many times we try to define where we are. Define who we are. At our age, at our currnet minds, it is a dangerous, fragile phrase. Everyone knows that these 5 years will be the ones that shape us the most. It is when we as people are most malleable, most unsure, most open to learning and teaching, and daring to tread new waters.
The world has much to be distracted by. So many influences, so many things. Perhaps it is the influence of too much literature, or stories, or just TOK, but I see meaning in almost everything. Patterns upon patterns, symbols within symbols, each repeating, folding, dancing together in the light.
So many influences, and the greatest tragedy is how we must shut ourselves to most of them. I think our greatest depression, my greatest depression at least, is the inability to reach. There is so much out there, so much beauty and power and strength, and we humans in our limited, flawed capacity cannot hope to reach it. It is the tragedy that causes us to turn into ourselves. To blame ourselves for not being as high as the stars, as perfect as the angels, as wonderous as the concepts that our minds and souls can dream and create, yet never reach.
It is the closing of the mind that pains me. That we must all do so, for sanity, for efficiency, for function. To open our minds to the universe and all its glory would leave us wallowing in our insignificance, our own weakness and fragility. We are forced, by neccessity, to pick only what is relevant.
And thus we begin to judge.
Because we are forced to judge, to contemplate the idea of importance, of priority, things are no longer pure. Life is fluid, changing, wonderfully changing, the same way a waterfall is mesmerising, the same way the falling stars and singing wind are beautiful. Moving, eternally moving and changing, always different yet somehow, remaining the same.
Siddhartha? Yea. Go ahead and feel put off by it.
All my pain, my suffering comes from the imposing of structure. We are needed to read these books, to score these marks, to reach these goals. And thus it is no longer growth, no longer flow, but a pressure, a suction - a dragging of chains bound around our souls as they struggle in other directions.
It is faster, safer, and more productive. And because of this humankind feels the eternal angst of not knowing their purpose, not knowing what they need.
I thought I broke out of the system. Of the competitive rubrics and judgments and endless targets. Now I see that all I did was impose a different set of rubrics, one based around originality, around creativity, a measurement of how immeasurable something was.
Heh.
Its so funny, yet so depressing at same time.
No more goals. No more schedules. Let me try that. Let me try to feel life. Feel its wave and motion, its tides and currents, its song, its surf, and all the fish in its depth.
Somepart I suppose, would need to remain an anchor. But no more judgement. No more competition. Just growth, growth for the sake of growth, for the delight of it. For the joy of the sky, the morning sun, the new seeds, the blooming flowers that fade away yet are renewed each dawn, as their petals are mourned and remembered each dusk.
Everyone says to live life for its own sake. That's incorrect. Life for its own sake never changes, never moves. Why do we keep insisting in living our lives and pace?
Let Life live you instead.