trapped in the house of wares

Submitted by digitaldaddy on Wed, 12/18/2019 - 14:38

I wake up early. Not because I want to, but because I must. They "give" me "points" for lateness. At first, I thought the points were something cool. Like they were rewarding us for rebelling against the man. But that's not what it was at all. It was just another illusion. Even after waking up to the truth I'm still trapped in the house of wares.

After being transported I put away my cellular rectangle. That object is an unpermitted distraction in the glorious house of wares. My hands will be occupied only by merchandise, packaging, and dunnage. For eight hours, I am a happy, productive, worker. It's wonderful, I convince myself, as the rest of the country gets paid about the same as I do for doing way less effort. I try to distract those doubts away by remembering that the hardest hustlers get the brightest futures.

I even believe that for a second. But I know deep down, that I am trapped in house of wares. My shoulders are sore from moving so much. My hands are gloved but their joints weren't meant for this. Technically I'm not doing anything my ancestors could not: I'm hunting for goods and gathering them into boxes. Hunter and gatherer. But the ancestors hunted and gathered for survival. This isn't survival.

Box after box after box. Sex toys and children's toys in the same shipment. Books. Pet food. So many pointless things going elsewhere, for what? Why? When?

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