Buzzbuzzbuzzbuzzzzitybuzuzzzuububuuzbuubzbztybzuuzbuzbubzubzubzuzzuzbubububbzuzzzz. In my head but not my ears. Just drones in a sadistically geometric farm, filched for our undervalued worth. Only those willing to acquiesce to spewing non-words and oozing fake confidence have any chance of breaking through the spotted-tile-of-mysterious-origin ceiling. Whoever invented those pseudo-material rectangles must be making a mint right now. My only source of pride is my ludicrous speed when switching windows when I hear the shuffle-hush of one of the higher-ups, holding my semblance of sanity in their dairy hands. I swear, if those husks ate any more cheese, they’d have curd children. I’ve taken to playing old text-adventures, at first as an experiment to see if I could fool the boss-folk, hoping that I could do something marginally entertaining and make it look like work. Hopefully, I will one day have worked in data entry, instead of this mind-bog of repetition and Excel. It’s a sad day when you find yourself pining for strife and adversity, something to fight against, overcome. All I’m doing now is passing the time until I die. Five of the clock, yes, success! Weekend.
I wake with crust on my eyelids and sand in every crevasse. Damn, the dream again. I’ve found my dreams to be a mirror of my current situation. When I was safe and sound, all I dreamt was danger and violence. Now that I’m on my island, it’s just endless droning. Surprisingly, it’s a nice break. Checking my nets, I of course find nothing edible; still need to weave them tighter. My crab traps are the same: ineffective. My supply of bananas should last me a very long time, I just want to broaden my cuisine a little, and test myself. I’ve always liked problem solving, my old employer never new they had a budding engineer on their hands. My water trench is still about half-full, I’ve found the sand to be an effective filter of the ocean water if dug deep and far enough away. I still boil all of my drinking water in my rock pots to be on the safe side. Nobody wants cholera. I guess it’s time to check on my next batch of banana stew, it takes a few days to fully simmer to perfection, a result of the low heat and thick sides of the shale cauldron. I could live off this stuff, and I do. I am peace, I am strife. I fight a faceless torrent, and I hope I never escape.
