Sunday, January 26, 2014

Call Center

Upright I sit in fear of the Oso who eats the floor. The man who feeds on our diversions. We are his stepping stools. His stairs to the upstairs. Like magnets to my fingertips the thick black keys pull me in. The screen stairs back at me. It's not a contest but technology knows no end to games. It waits obsessively for the next case, the next tab, the next page. A flash of red and a voice hits the brain like a tambourine. A flood of information pours down the ear canal and all I want is a problem, not the whole war. I cover my walls in memories, reminders of the life outside this florescent lit strain on the retina. We seek a little sunlight-nothing more than a distant window can be seen, only if you dare to stand up to the shadow in the corner of the room. Through that door is a portal only he can enter and exit, unless your are invited. Do I wish to be invited? No! I prefer to stay with my compaƱeros, waiting for the Oso to stroll through the endless cubicles of slavery.