Six pairs of hands stare down from the wall, all tied up in various states of separation. Their faces united in their banality; a city name and flag pin is all that distinguish breakfast at London from sundown in Sydney. Pity, but the prime movers of a business model would have but little personality to share. Oblivious to the many minions, collared to monogrammed blue lace dangling a non-descript access card, racing them at every turn. Doors open. They sweep through. Unbeknownst, so does time.
A siren might have been the prop for Means of Production. But, here we make do with lot less dramatics. Of course, we are not hoisted onto a caged car down a barely lit shaft. Seeking veins for precious, while letting ours waste for nothing. Washing with our sweat what is no more than rock, for the sparkles belongs to somebody else. Neither do we emerge, awash in soot, grime, and early twilight, to the accompaniment of a wailing siren. Nor is the emolument a fistful of dollars, black lung and a lifetime of under achievement. Yet, the more things change..?
There are bills to pay. And few amongst us are destined to sing, soldier or create acts of beauty (and survive on the pension). So we head for the mines of this millennium.
Here, the ceiling is high, the Lumens set to light meters and the air monitored for bacterium. Murals, birthday lists, and at places, faux graffiti. The mice on the wheel are sated, flush and needless to say, dispensable. The job is monotonous, mind numbing & venal. Hazards of the Industrial Revolution reinvent themselves.
It is our souls that are mined of their creativity, often leaving behind a hollow, long drained of its precious lightness. For many, it’s a waste land that no rain may revive.
The wheels need to keep turning, at any cost. By the way, I’m off at 5.
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