Monday, September 06, 2004
Workaholic on a compulsory break
Busy, busy, busy bee. Worker ant pauses, surprised almost at the fact he has a moment to spare. A moment worth absolutely of no consequence. He cannot call up the one person he's been thinking of all day, not least because of a certain monster atop his shoulder called Pride, and he has not the heart to talk to anyone else. So he listens, listens to the busy drone of the anthill about him - or is it bee-hive? Have got my species mixed up, suffice to say that we're all (ant, bee, human) much too busy to really care.
Lift a pebble, cart it home, lift an acorn, hope it'll stay till Winter, splurge on purse strings, and wonder as to the days of bread and water ahead.
It doesn't make much sense to anybody other than the busy bee/ant/humanoid. This moment of pause is too damn antiseptic, too compulsory, too imposed for me to savour it. Even God had to rest on the seventh day, they say - but what a drag! What is a moment of rest worth, if it is not of your own choosing?
Damn it - why on earth is that phone not ringing?
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