[Anyme]

And there I go again: Shanghai Nanjing and back. The memories, the pieces of the phone talks are strung between them and there’s no use getting out of the web. The same music as two cities ago. The tangerine-big sun hangs low over the speedway railroad. I give classes. I speak different languages. I ask them and they answer me. The trees dash by the window as fast as the train moves on. Half an hour here, half an hour there. More than enough. Documents. Pieces of paper that don’t mean anything. Nothing at all. Probably they will lead me somewhere sometime.

Actually, I might probably arrive at some final destination and will never move again. Not that I want it, though. I get blamed for everything I’m not guilty of. That’s somewhat good, since the things I am guilty of go unnoticed. Yet it’s so annoying. I seem to be lost for words. And the ones I got stick out of my mouth so awkward. I’m actually no composed, I just stopped caring. They might be shouting at me or ignoring me, I’m better off with me myself, porn and PC games.

True love. What’s that? A branded concept. A thing that sells itself. A Big Lie. I wake up and smell her hair. Is it love? I see her going to the shower. Naked. She’ll never get naked in front of someone else. Probably. Does love presuppose mutual nudity? If it does, can a morgue be called the temple of love? If not, then why do naked people make love at all?

It’s hard to read her thoughts. Her mind. Is it because she’s so secretive or because she’s got no thoughts at all? I’ll never know, but what I know is that idealising kills. I mean, first it dumbs you down and only then kills. And, if I may, that’s a very pathetic death. That’s very stupid, anyway, to be speaking about this being half-married and all. It seems to be almost like some second-rate movie where everyone’s happy and have a photograph-happy family and they have parties together on the weekends and a good job and they live in condos. Yeah, they always live in condos.

I also do. I hate condos. I say that I do, but the miserable part of me says I should be willing to go up. A higher floor, more money every year, fringe benefits, social insurance, a friendly dentist and a fluffy dog. I hate that. It’s just like in “Fight Club” only in the reverse. I changed a shithole for a condo, whereas he shifted back. Well, the thought is: he somehow got into that condo with an yin-yang table and all that IKEA furniture. It didn’t come down to him by heritage and he wasn’t born right at his working place.

I wear a white shirt. Long sleeve. Strictly long sleeve.

Tell you what: before going to sleep I’m humbly calculating how much of my alter-self I’ve already sold or changed to fit the company policy. What’s more: I try to figure out how far I can go. What else to sell. Not too much now, yet it’s so comforting to have something left in stock.

Fuck it. It’s a corporate fuck it, btw

Comments

[Гость]

corpo rules

[Anyme]

corpofilia.