The First Day

I gawk at the suits practicing being people, crude imitations of what I am, having become it by myself, though naturally. People aren't made of suits, but of flesh. This is the role I'm going to play, I have no qualms about it. Just as I became a person by accretion, from trying to get women, so will this, I'm sure, get me to a place I wasn't expecting. I feel it from my sore feet to my wet hair. No pain no gain, it's true, but like a wise man once said, and other people only gloss over: working hard without talent is tragic. And that's what they are, nay, what they will always be, as they set their fate into stone with a starry look on their eyes, too blindsighted to feel the dirt burying them in. • I just got a call from the russian, I can't wipe the smile off my face. Work hours are supposed to be from 10:45 to 21:00, it was 21:40 something as I was walking back to the station; the russian told me before that it's "better" to be there at 10:30; she just called to say there will be "special training" tomorrow so I should be there at 9:30. But still I was advised to make some time to review, make charts, pour my last waking hours into total devotion to the system. Hell, if I really want I can make appointments on Sunday so I can learn even more! Isn't that great? What is going through these people's minds? What do they think they will do with all the money when they've gotten used to sacrificing all their time for it? Still, I smile, I enjoy being at the zoo, it makes me sure I can never not be in a zoo, but merely a zoo of my choice. Life is work anyway. Good work or bad work, or the nothingness I just stepped out of. Maybe that's why I smile, I choose my misery, I trek the illusory world of others as I wish. If things go sour and I become the typical sheep with a penthouse, I will alway know it was my choice. Hopefully, I hope to hope anyway, things won't come to that and I'll merely take over the illusory world and make it do my bidding. • The last customer was enlightening. Yesterday a friend told me people would value a commodity more than buying the feeling of being a nice person - he doesn't know what he's talking about. The "customer" stood meekly at his door, his lovely wife and 2.5 kids in the kitchen as he, even more meekly pronounced his profession as "economist", making it obvious the huge nothingness he bought for the modest price of his soul and sweat. He bought the goodness without a second thought, of course he did, emotions are just something you can buy with money, like everything else. Isn't he a nice person? I said he was a pussy, I failed to elaborate as the russian proclaimed, in a calm, knowing, subtly reprimanding tone: "He is a nice person. He gave." He gave shit. He got. We got. I hope someone else got. But again, lesson learned, I'll talk their language, I'll be one of them, or so it'll appear of course, as I'll always be one of mine, the patriot of a country whose population is me, the only sensible thing to be, for me and all. My smile is dying off, it had a good run, I'm happy with what it makes me write. When you are born, bred and live in the Void, what else could you talk about. But to step out of it, that is Birth.