My motivation when writing about my work experiences

is the hope that the time wasn’t entirely wasted

that I’ll remember something

in those forgettable days

that is worth writing down

or that the time I spent

with the people at work

wasn’t interchangeable

or replaceable.

Basically, I’m looking for redemption

knowing, that I burned through too many days

I was asked once, “How long have you been with us?”

It had been three years, but my manager didn’t know

I stayed because everything became familiar

I stayed because I didn’t know where else to go or what else to do

I stayed

It always shocks me when the people I have gotten used to

take two steps back

when I’m talking to them

It’s an insult—even though nothing is said.

It’s a horror—to think I don’t know the people I spend most of my life with

Many of them—I don’t want to know

and they don’t want to know me.

There is a polite relationship, based-on superficial tasks

that always get done, despite difficulties

and most people want to be well-thought-of

in this system

but they don’t think of each other—

they don’t care

They just want to get by with a minimum of difficulty.

Why am I writing about my work experiences?

It’s the necessity of doing meaningless work that seems insane

I can’t buy anything—other than food and time

because working, costs too much.

5 thoughts on “My Time

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