Ticky-Tacky

I want to kill myself. Trapped in my little box, the only escape is a narrow doorway that spits me out into a world trying to stuff me back in. Insanity creeps up like an alcoholic's third drink, and Post-it notes form patterns, leading me to conclusions I do not want to believe. At the promise of wealth and power, I sold my soul. More than a decade of hard work was spent obtaining a seat at this table, what a fucking hellhole it turned out to be.

I spiraled inside my portal, so I turned it off. Time began to count, They will soon catch me. I took a chance and left my box. Little boxes all the same, just like those yearbooks They used to trap us in. We no longer have names or faces, and our friends and dreams were left behind in the good old days, where they belong. The atmosphere here is unassuming; a fellow wanderer can provide shelter one day and stomp you the next. To wander the boxes, you must do so with conviction. Being sniffed out is a beating, one you never forget. I head to Brother, who assists me day to day but finds my suffering amusing. As much as I push his buttons, he pushes right back. Today, I requested a copy of The Project, and he “claims” he never got it. Bullshit. A good beating would do him good, but They are protective of Brother. What a fucking heap of junk.

After the unfruitful meeting with Brother, I bee-lined to my box, but fate had other ideas. I was reeled in by Chet, who caught my wander. He loves to swim about and chomp my ass. His toothy underbite and mannerisms draw the image of a piranha, nibbling in anticipation. “Yada, yada, The Project, yada, my desk, thank you,” he babbles. “Sure,” I respond, not aware of what I am agreeing to. It is impossible to get anything done when you slave under a divorced deadbeat you do not respect. If I work hard, They say, I can be just like him!

Back to the box of misery. Back in the portal, I sift through the rows of nonsense for anything resembling The Project. Click, click, click… click…… click. I am spiraling again. God damn it. My brain switches to its feeble auxiliary power, and the patterns on the wall return. I am running in the wrong direction. Truths that had been carved in stone began to wash away, unearthing questions that contorted my fundamental beliefs. Spinning faster, I lose my grasp. Suddenly, the picture becomes clear. I see my family and children, but I am absent. But I never arrived, snuffed out by the sands of time. Melancholy drifted in like it never left, and maybe it didn’t. All the same, it is here now and I am not later. And nobody knows. I am out of control.

I snap into Chet biting my ass again. “The investrialization starts tomorrow, how is The Project going?” Like an underpaid security guard, any bullshit answer would suffice. Standard routine ball busting, he does not give two fucks how The Project was going. But that is not the point. We both know I do not belong here. His weathered and set-back eyes shone like mine in younger years, but the rough waters of life had stripped them down to a sleepless core. He has nowhere to go. I stand up and walk past him, leaving his question behind. Boxes full of doctors and lawyers and business executives. And they all look just the same. I run for my life, ignoring the pleas of family and friends gathered around me. Gasping for the sweet release of Death, I plunge forward. Is this a leap of faith or a bad idea? It is impossible to know. The Gates of Hell close behind me. Nobody stops me; my box is in high demand. Only fools leave. The clouds draw back to make room for a sun I have not seen for years. I sit down on the grass. An open road rolls over the hill, disappearing in the distance.