Why can't a kid just break away? Every night he sacrifices slumber for a paycheck. Replacing his warm bed for a cold work space. Day-dreaming at night and sleep-walking into the morning's light, his mind drifts and dreams of a day. A day where he is freed from the fetters of this so called
civilized civilization. A day where he is no longer the fodder for
firing, but the cannon itself. But there is money to be made and bills to be paid. So he basks in the buzz of flourescent bulbs trying to earn a living. The monkey is trained to push buttons on machines. And if the siren wails, he dances.
Dance monkey dance.
The sound of the alarms lingers in his ears, even long after he leaves his cage. It is the soundtrack for his imprisonment. But at least there's plenty of pretty blinking lights. Blues, yellows, greens and reds flicker from the machines and reflect into his psyche. After so many hours in this rudimentary rave of monotony, his mind reduces to binary codes.
On and Off and O and Off.
1's and 0's and 1's and 0's.
He stares deep into the machine and sees his own reflection. He is no different than the gears and mechanisms housed in these monstrous machines. A single cog caught up in the scheming of someone else's keystrokes.
Cmd_start. Cmd_end.
Step and repeat.
Cycle forward and backward again. Cause what good is a machine that doesn't execute its protocol? He faces a barage of crucial tests that prove to be critically unimportant.
Fuck it.
How about another cigarette break? Seems to be the only thing to motivate him through the long hours of the darkness. He jumps on his longboard and retreats to his sanctuary, the empty parking garages of his imagination. There he can take a
drag. Just kick, push and breathe. Here is where he clears his head and awakens his sleeping limbs. But even here, he can't completely escape the gaze of electric eyes. The cameras turn, pivot, sweep and scan every dark corner of this desolate concrete castle.
The King sits high atop his mighty tower and peers down through closed circuit television monitors. Whenever one of the workers tastes the sweet nectar of serenity, he sends his minions.
I'll get you my pretty! And your little board too!!!
They banter and babble on about liability and regulations, trying to dull the dimwhits further. But our boy never ment to harm. Never ment to hinder. God forbid someone actually might have to do some work around here. His brain bucket is strapped tight and still they are frightened. They hide behind starched collars, stiff upper lips and badges made of aluminum foil. They provide security though they themselves are so insecure. Not like he rode through hell and high water to get there. Not like he does this daily. Well, hell, the monsterous hills couldn't dissuade his decision. Rush-hour traffic didn't terrify him. What makes them think that they could convince him to settle? To simply abide?! In case they didn't get the fucking point in the first place, he won't.
He can't.
How could he?
