I woke up from a dream to find the receiver of a telephone in my hand. Telephones with receivers? Yes. Frigging telephones with receivers. What was I dreaming of? Where am I? I blink, I rub my eyes, I shake my head. My lips are chapped, my eyes red and my neck sore. It is not a telephone receiver in my hand? It’s my death sentence. It is my cellphone. It is the quintessence of my miserable fucking life. I flinch with its ring and dance to its tone. It glitches on my alarm and gets on my nerves. It is the quintessence of my existence. It is the doom of my life. It is my cellphone. It is my death sentence. I lie down. I am still dreaming.
One fortnight ago, I had an interview to take; a job offer to accept; a mail to send; deadlines to deliver; bosses to please, colleagues to screw over and office politics to discuss. One fortnight after, I still have all this to look forward to. One year later, another interview to take; another job offer to reject and the cycle stops; at least for another fortnight. I am in limbo, I am in a black hole and I am tired. I can’t struggle anymore, I can’t breathe any harder. I can’t live any longer.
Alarm. ‘Ahhh Glitch’. Sneaky. Loud. Cursing. Snooze. 5 minutes. Alarm. ‘Ahhh Glitch’. “Fuck! I am awake.” Life to live, shits to take and a back to break. I slide into the toilet. Wipe the mist off the mirror. I am horrified. I have been sacrificed. I have the look of a donkey chewing the cud. The cud of monotony. The cud of rat race. The cud of ordinary. The cud of mediocrity. The cud of what we could have been and what we haven’t been. I chew and chew and chew some more, until my teeth hurt and my mouth is foaming. I am having a seizure; a panic attack. Am I dying? Am I dead? Where am I going? How long will it take to get there? Loud flourish of my flush. I am awake. I bare my teeth. I am smiling the smile of the undead and grinning the grin of the barely living.
From the plate in front of me, a half burnt piece of toast stares at me with profound disgust. The omelette on the side judges me too. The coffee is tasteless but prejudicial. My food is my nemesis, a product of my doing. The salt slides a little further away from me every day. The sugar begrudges sweetening my coffee. Prejudicial little tramps, both of them. A pair of bloodshot but sleepy eyes stare at me from my knife. A suggestion is reflected in them. The suggestion to take a life. A suggestion to rip apart a human being. A suggestion to hack my boss to pieces. A suggestion to avenge my miserable life. I am too weak. I rationalize. I rip apart my omelette instead and hack my bread. I avenge my miserable Monday morning.
The cab arrives a little late. The driver is smug. I tell him to be on time. He smirks and tells me he can’t wake up earlier than he has to because of me. If I am unsatisfied I can fire him. He attacks my jugular and nicks it open. I want to break his skull but I put on my earphones and sit quietly in the backseat. Mondays are the bane of my existence. My driver- its causation. I am staring out the car window. Everyone is in a mad rush. Struggling to reach the place where we are all supposed to reach. They just want to reach a little earlier than every one else. Am I those people? Indeed I am. What have I been telling you all morning? The car stops at a red light. I stare at my reflection. I can feel another suggestion coming on. I am freaked. I am sweating. I think I am going to piss my pants. There is no shame in my suggestion. My eyes want me to kill the driver. I resist. No use. I can’t fight any longer. I ask the driver to take a detour. Revenge is my salvation. I am fucked!