On Any Given Day

I THINK THEREFORE I WRITE

“Routine is a mean grinding machine that turns dreams into dust”

6 30 am, the repugnant alarm beeps, daily reminder of the unrewarded time race from bed to desk. Multitasking your way through the bedroom, bathroom and kitchen, gulping your hot coffee as you pack your suitcase, and look for your car keys.

As the workday goes on, you grow tired from counting to 10, clenching your fists till veins pop out and palms turning red. If only you could have rearranged their faces for each undeserved insult that crawled its path under your skin. You felt mocked, disgraced, yet holding your head high, a heavy  burden, it certainly outweighs the pain inflicted on the shoulder of Atlas from holding the globe all this time.

5pm, your spine numb from sitting still in traffic, your tongue sore from cursing the reckless impatient drivers, the daily torture of coming back from that job…

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