Freewriting · prose · realistic · Writing

Office Slave

This is a therapeutic free-write that I composed at work, days before having surgery in August 2015. I quit my job two weeks later and then jetted off to travel the world four weeks following that. Please bear in mind, this is a raw free-write, written in pain with a lot of anger.

Isn’t it remarkable how we, as humans, get to live?

We get to be who we want to be in a world full of raw beauty.

There isn’t much choice of where you want to go and what to do when you’re young, but once the options open up, there is a wondrous world of… pain and anger.

Your back is aching, resembling a splintered creaking floorboard, trodden on by front line soldiers.

There is no forgiveness here, on the Somme. No sympathy from colleagues. No fucks given. Nothing. That’s why there is pain, that’s why it’s come to this. I commend you for putting up with this for as long as you have.

The pain is an ache courtesy of a fresh kick to the sacral nerve, a cold shock radiating through my bones.

Although I meticulously type up reports and answer the phone, the bottom of a pit is where I genuinely reside, crying out in pain. Trying to take gasps of air in between guggling paracetamol and low-class opioids.

I hate this. I hate drugs. Are they OK if they’re prescribed or am I that other person? The drugged up, slow carnivore, destroying lives as it tramples through the land.

It’s the inner scream that makes me want to run. Run from the pain, from the rude people, and they’re pitch charcoal coloured words, output by their Slothian brains. They don’t care. So much for team support.

You are better in this way because you care. Even if they don’t, you do. Doing what’s right isn’t always easy. However, it has to be done. Otherwise, you’ll become just like the Slothingtons. Slow and bowing to the ‘All-Powerful’ omnivorous people out there.

I like to call them ‘managers’.

Not me.

I won’t be like them, Sat at the same office desk, twenty years later, typing up the same report for someone else’s business.

I’ll heal, explore, smile, and live as humans are meant to.

I will unchain myself.

Freedom means something different now compared to previous generations.

Think about that.

Should I feel pain knowing others before myself were inflicted with so much worse?
Is what I’m feeling even valid when people are suffering at this very moment?

Think about that.

But after all this, all I can think about is, ‘my fucking back is killing me!’

Am I selfish for thinking that?

© 2016, Daniella May Little, All Rights Reserved.

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