One Day of Rage – Part One

The alarm kicked me out of bed at 6am, the dead synapses of my brain reborn, revived for a brand new day, take the crash cart away, it’s not that bad, just another work day, another Monday, for fuck’s sake.  Just another waste of time, some sort of unrecorded crime that involves me being cooped up in a room where robots sit and pretend they give a shit about the thing they do, whatever it is they do, I don’t care, why should I care, it’s their own personal nightmare. I have my own dreams, no matter how far away they seem so I’ll join the commuters anyway, ready for the coming day, thinking about the play between want and need, the balance between greed and a satisfying life.

And here I am on a Monday morning, another Monday morning, turning on the early news only for some guy to sit there on the screen just talking at me, he makes no sense, talks about celebrities and other disasters, he just drones on and on, just sits there wearing a smart suit together with his plastic smile; it’s all just superficial style.

So what’s next on the agenda, oh yes, that’s right, a sugar-filled excuse for breakfast, masquerading as something healthy, just making some corporate junkie wealthy off the increasing waistline of society. Eat more shit, it’s good for you, it’s tasty, nice, there’s no price you have to pay, at least not immediately, just put more of it away and you’ll be fine, except for that waistline, that shortness of breath, the fact that your bringing yourself closer to an early death. But what the hell, everybody else is doing it as well, except for those fitness and health obsessives, who strut past on the footpath, with their tight bodies flaunting my inadequacies – bastards.

Anyhow have to catch the Number 60  bus, where I get hassled by some guy already drunk at 7:30am, his red eyes, almost mesmerise as he makes lewd comments, while I try to stare out of the window, ignore him, deplore him, hope that I don’t turn into him, as suburbia goes by, as time passes all too slow. And just across the way there’s this man I see a lot, he just sits and stares seemingly unaware of what’s around him, he doesn’t move much, not as such, I think he’s dead or some sort of zombie or in the clutches of some possessive demon. His name’s Geoff, Geoff Munro. He expired on the Number 60 bus sometime between 1997 and 2005, but nobody noticed he’d died, apparently. Serving the sentence of the terminally dulled, he was inoculated against colour, against fun, against life, time has dimmed the light in his eyes, he was allocated standard issue fatigue for a job that he came to despise; no innovation, no compromise, permanently gasping for untainted air, relentlessly throttled by process, watching the clock until home-time arrives. Geoff Munro still rides that same bus, same time, same seat, same people, unaware he’s no longer alive. At least that’s what it looks like to me.

I mean look at all of these people, maybe some of them are zombies, corporate clones, or most probably wannabe’s, but most likely zombies. The stories had to come from somewhere, didn’t they?  Haiti, apparently. I think most people secretly believe in zombies, at least those aren’t already brain-eating, drooling consumers of what the media and corporations are secreting into our psyche through stealth. It’s those sunken staring eyes, dead pale-looking skin, and the fact that I’m pretty sure I can hear them moaning under their breath – it’s a dead giveaway (pardon the pun!). And those that aren’t yet zombies are on the way there, I can see them wearing their headphones, looking hypnotised by whatever they are hearing, undoubtedly receiving messages to indoctrinate them. Something like Work hard and die! or Motivation ruins lives or perhaps Boredom is the new black! Or perhaps even Resistance is useless, buy more shit, it’s cheap and nasty and you’ll feel better for a little bit, until you die in fit of self-induced consumptive paralysis.

Outside, suburbia still passes me by in a series of monotonous, off-the-shelf gardens and standard issue houses, and my resolve hardens that this will not be me. No, I am going to escape from the approaching rapture. I’m going to fly, capture that free-thinking spirit that I know lies within, even if the government thinks it’s a sin to have an opinion, a dissenting vision of what this world could be, so listen to me, even though I’m currently buried beneath bills and expectations, I will prevail in this life-long fight to be me.

About George Fripley
I am a writer who enjoys writing humour, satire, poetry and sometimes a bit of philosophy. I live in Perth, Western Australia and occasionally get a poem or article published. It's all good fun! I have two books available for unwary readers, Grudges, Rumours and Drama Queens- The Civil Servant's Manual (This contains all that anybody could ever want to know about why government runs so slowly) and More Gravy Please! - the Politician's Handbook. (available through Amazon). Real name Peter Tapsell...just started off writing under a pseudonym and kept going.

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