Saturday, 15 March 2008

the boxcutter


He sneezed a lump of snot into his hand which he banally wiped down his shirt leaving a visible glistening trail, at a glance it was evident that this was not the first time he had made such a fashion statement, 'she's radiant today' he thought, he peered with all his heart through the door across the warehouse he was wearing away in, she disappeared into her other world and he continued to exist in his, his was a world of cardboard, he knew not where they came from nor where they went after they left his world, but he knew his responsibility in his world was to cut the cardboard boxes that were thrown into it, people would walk past where he worked throwing into it boxes in need of cutting, 'they depend on me,' he would think. In the beginning they would speak to him, things like asking him how he was or how he made use of his time outside of work, but his inability to communicate soon discouraged them. Some periods of the day were quite slow in terms of the amount of boxes needing cutting, and the boxcutter would think of her and her radiance and then of her unavailability, 'I am but a putrid stench of a wreck of a wretch of a man,' he would conclude, but some periods of the day were altogether frantic, he would be cutting boxes as quick as his little hands wold let him and still he would look over his shoulder and feel disheartened at the size of the stack of boxes still awaiting his assistance, once the boxes were cut and flattened they were placed into a plastic container with wheels, usually about twice a day the container would become full and he would have to wheel it outside to empty into the skip, he looked forward to these occasions most as he enjoyed the change in scenery, sometimes when he was so engrossed in the job he would fail to notice a box flung in his direction and it would hit him on the head, he would turn towards the door and hear laughter and quick footsteps away, at a designated time in the morning for fifteen minuets, for half an hour midday and for another fifteen minuets in the afternoon he was permitted a break from cutting boxes, he would use this time to visit the toilet cubicle where he would eject all unwanted fluids and faeces from his body or sometimes simply to use the paper from the roll to wipe the sweat from his bum crack, also within this allocated period of non box cutting, he would usually have enough time to walk to the canteen where for 20p he could receive from a machine a plastic cup of a hot drink, he would take the drink back to his box cutting area and sit upon the bench which he uses to cut boxes upon and stare at the wall drinking his drink, 'what of the other girl with the pretty face and bad skin who mops the canteen floor' he would think 'she sees such brief glimpses of me, as far as she is concerned, I am completely normal,' indeed sometimes they would pass each other, he on the way to the canteen, she mopping the floor and upon eye contact would exchange smiles which he adored and he would continue towards the drink machine and she would continue to mop the floor, after each such encounter, when sat staring at his wall thinking of her petty face and seeming availability he would say 'I am but a putrid stench of a wreck of a wretch of a man,' but as soon as the boxes began once again being thrown into his room, he would think, 'they depend on me,' and continue with his job. Still waiting for life to begin with ever less time to find it, sometimes the boxcutter would become obsessed with all the accumulating dispair ever clouding his vision, become vexed at the damnation he finds himself confronted with, torture himself with manic fits of intense declarations of self hatred, loathing of the world and all the people in it that he believed had nothing better to do than think of him with ridicule and contempt, these type of thoughts usually upset the boxcutters frame of mind and he wanted to shout violently at someone but his lack of character or composition would not allow it, one day during a quiet period where not so many boxes were being dropped into his world, he sat on his bench staring at the knife in his hand, then he had an idea, he looked at his fingernails, they had grown to well over 2 mm in length above the finger, he decided to make use of his time and cut with his knife the overgrown fingernails, he held out his pointing finger of his left hand and began to trim the nail whilst the other fingers remained in a fist, the knife slipped, the blade crossed the knuckles of the closed fingers, all three fingers split open and began bleeding, he felt a distinctive pain, so vast in anguish was his relevant parts of the brain that deal with such things as pain, he was unable to cry out, he clenched with his other hand the wounded hand, his teeth pushed hard against each other whilst his mouth distorted as far as it possibly could, his eyes also became misshapen and tightly all the muscles in his face screwed, shaking with tears pouring from his eyes he found the strength to look down at the situation, blood was now covering both hands and dripping into a pool on the floor, with the pain now unbearably sharp he suddenly thought, 'I am still alive, after all, imagine that!'

Saturday, 8 March 2008


Well, I've just kicked the chair away and have perhaps a few moments to consider everything, get it all into a bit of perspective I suppose, where to begin, I think that the main problem is this idea that we have some kind of right to do exactly as we please, we find ourselves ever in search of pleasure yet nothing actually does please, brooding the type of anxiety that I expect would not be found in the minds of our ancestral land manipulating tribes where its obvious from birth the direct rewards from your work, in no doubt either would be the cause to which you would be expected to fight to the death for, trained warrior, fight ready, yes lack of battle does breed a certain lack of purpose, instinct conflict, for what else has the human evolved believing if not to wear the colours of the clan and hold our victory, football thug substitute, it just all so, so boring these days, war, we fight wars through our televisions, half hour heroes, then it becomes rather tiresome and find a preferred mediocrity, and just like that, its not happening any more, with peace there is no objective, no life objective, more a money based objective where things we don't need are built by the machine operators in exchange for money which they can use to buy back things we don't need for an inflated price, though there are some of us that make things, actually produce a physical result, building a house for example, something of significance, yet ironically the people who don't actually make anything, those who's work, work they call it! moving money from one place to another, seem to be moving most of it their way, oh well let them! Im off now, no use being bitter at a time like this, maybe though I could have chosen a more dramatic way to go, like leaping from a great height, I wonder how that sensation would feel, the ground approaching at unstoppable speeds, the adrenaline of it, the view for one thing, then, splat. ha! IÕd probably spend the whole time wondering if maybe I should have hung! There, the funny side of it all, humour, a lifetime of wishing my misery to go and it does as I think my final thoughts, typical of me, to wait until the very last moment to realise the whole thing is but a joke, and see what a punch line I invented, I blame childhood, at some point in childhood I must have believed it was all one day going to be satisfactory some how, and with such expectations that got built up, oh how I built them, future video tapes of laughter location love and all that other ridiculous stuff that never happens, damn, I should have put some music on, what would I have chosen, I can never decide on important matters such as that, no, see, I really don't deserve to...