When the art waits

One of the things most frustrating about being a working class writer is, well, the working part.

To be sure, work is frustration regardless of creative aspirations on the side.

The energy source powering our toil as we break ourselves against the structures of the past. We sell ourselves to time-merchants in exchange for participatory tokens we can cash in for arcade prizes.

All I want to do today is type away at my computer, but I sit in the back of a pickup truck instead, tapping phantom keys projected through light. My phone will have to do.

The lack of a ‘tab’ key is excruciating, much like the chill that is chewing on the tips of my toes. Like the incessant complaints emanating from my lower back.

Another day, another construction site.

The only thing I hope is that when I am bodily smashed against sharp edges and heavy tools, that I come away keener and more fully carved out, with sensible lines and stoked fire towards the works I wish to sacrifice myself for.

This game of preferred sacrifice is perhaps the end-goal of the individual. Even without cash payment, nothing is free.

Even our capacity to burn calories is finite, and so I have found a way to type after all.

It is something, it counts for something, so you might excuse my small revenge, my small rebellion found in writing.

Happy toils, folks. We’re all Sisyphus after all.