The below is one of the products of a creative writing course I took a couple of years ago. Our teacher asked us to continue a story that began with the sentence “In the forest where none may pass by you”. Obviously I took a different approach to it. I had just de-slaved myself from the corporate world and had fun venting on the matter like an excited teenager freshly out of a shitty relationship. When I look back now, the corporate world did have its perks that I took for granted but then again I’m still glad I’m out of it.
In the forest where none may pass but you, you are first mesmerized by mute metallic letters looming overhead like Big Brother who was never really there but somehow ever-present, planning and resting, in the protected cave of your industrial giant. You thought that this giant would comfort you, show you some wonders of its world and show you its care. It does not and you will understand otherwise. You are met by drones in over-priced branded shirts, pants, slick hair do’s, plastered, crusty smiles and glazed, pupil-less, eyes. None has any genuine depth, any true inner being; these attributes are not pre-requisites to enter. You eat on plastic chairs with heavy utensils, munching and scrunching meals that do very little for your taste buds. There is no savoring; you are fed with over-zealous recommendations for a misconception on health and life enjoyment. You recognize this from the numerous posters on the walls, the deluding slogans, mere letters and words placed neatly next to each other to convey a message that you register yet the information your brain captured still fails to compute. Everybody’s cocooned in their minute bubble thinking and calculating that they will get there; to that place where the American Dream comes true. That is not entirely false, not for the bad ones. Your fellow drones accompany you with fabricated fellowship gently through corridors perfumed with pungent smells of disinfectants, nostril-tickling air freshener and cheap leather, over-powering your senses further. You walk on carpeted floors bearing the tracks and marks of pumps and loafers and trendy coffee stains and when you touch the walls your fingers go numb. You see dull faces and bodies hunched over blaring screens, disorderly documents and empty talk. The sounds you hear are beeps, machine buzz, repeated monotonous chatter, Xeroxing, drawers opening, closing, clangs of keys, keyboard typing and nothing. You are abandoned in a place where “people are afraid to merge”. Your creativity is limited, unneeded. Your soul is stapled and paper clipped in a file cabinet somewhere. This is not an entry. There is no moment of truth.