Ahh. A sigh of relief. But the sigh seems at ill ease.
I have a job. A jay oh bee. They call me a “financial analyst”, but I know what I really am: a monkey. Yes. A monkey. And there are lord monkey’s that rule over me. There is an order to this troop of baboons. Sure, I love these monkeys. I love how they adore their plush threads, the way they discuss their fictional television heroes with such compelling fervor, the manner in which they describe their vehicles, those traveling trinkets indicating a monkey’s base status and wealth. And I laugh. Nay. I scoff. All monkeys.
They prune each other with every compliment. They tease out the insecurities with every flattering gesture. The monkeys like me. But I am a new monkey, and slightly different. You see, upon my interview, I performed like the very best monkey. They would give me lines, and I would retort with monkey precision. I pantomined all the monkey values back at them, and they smiled, showed their teeth, and clapped with joy. Be our monkey! they said, and soon they proffered a letter inviting me into their clan. I hesitated, seeing my duties, my potential monkey antics, but necessity called and I could not hesitate to answer: a monkey I shall become. But only for a time. I need to figure out how the lord monkey, this king ring leader, corrals the others with such commanding ease.
I learned about a monkey on a type writer when I was a boy. They taught the statistical chances that this monkey would type an entire dictionary, or something like the works of Shakespeare, by pounding on the keys at random. The told me how many years it would take. It was trillions upon trillions, I’m sure. That’s how I feel about my monkey business. Numbers and letters and keys. Type type type. Monkeyyyy!
They still need to enculturate me. I haven’t been fully socialized by these monkey’s yet. In time, in due time. They are nice monkey’s.
The moon slips behind the vibrant blue hue: night shade. Streams wrinkle across my forehead, of therapeutic thought. Where will I be? I ask.
Must I be a monkey? No. But I can pretend.
I must write, and write, and reflect, and think, and turn my thoughts inside out, and sharpen their contents into spears that I can thrust at the enemy, those impeding perceptions, those perverting pensivities. I must think. I must possess desires and goals and dreams that extend through time, beyond material matters, into the future, where mind imbues blossoming satisfaction with beauty.
I have goals. I have clear goals, clear as the crystalline concrete lining the roads to Rome.
I will write. Why haven’t you written lately, sir? Because I have been drunk. Drunk as hell, and looking for jobs. Applying, interviewing, lying through my teeth. Lying that I love these companies, that I possess a desire to subjugate my passions in exchange for a meager paycheck, a pathetic allowance to incentivize my passions towards perversion. I have been drunk as bloody hell. And I have been searching. It’s the only way I’ve been able to forgive myself for this terrible abuse of conscience.
But I am never without a plan. The cunning are wiser than the clever. You must never make yourself too obvious. You must appear a one-sided dolt: dull on one side, sharp on the other. But I am two sided and doubly sharp. I cannot be prodded from behind, lest I slice you mercilessly with my wit while I lick you with my charm. It is true. I cannot be pushed from behind. Do you want something done? Give me something worthwhile to slice, to sink my sly sapience into.
I think I’d like to read more fiction. Or maybe not. I have a ton of non-fiction I’d like to catch up on. Physics reading and what not. Light reading that fosters the all seeing eye inside, that sempiternal gaze that penetrates the unknown; I beg it to focus and stare on.
And I fall on hushed ribbons that smear the cheek with velvet overtones.
Goals. Those bastards. Those nuggets, those gems, those precious pieces of wonder that keep my mind musing, my eyes oozing, my fingers fidgeting: all for something brighter, bigger, better.