Traffic Light Sandwich
Once I press the button, that’s me going to work.
The process begins. The final turn. Desires to go home are washed away by the knowledge of nosey colleagues seeing me from the window. I wonder if I look sad. Do they know I stood at the traffic lights for fifteen minutes?
It’s as if there was a memo sent around all of the top firms in the country to ensure all buildings are fucking transparent. Windows on windows on windows. Oh, look at us, we are so accessible because we can see the road from our office. Being able to witness your own aborted fetuses hastily marching downhill. I suppose the more bodies, the less guilt. Or rather, the hierarchical distance blurs your culpability. Certainly helps me.
I reach my office with the traffic lights in sight. Mocking me. A pillar of normality, the common whore. Aw, who am I kidding? I am the whore. We are the whores.
My cufflinks tell me I’m well paid. Rattling off the table as I throw emails into the abyss- a paper aeroplane exploring a hurricane. Jackie informs me my new shirt makes me look handsome, and I’ll find a partner in no time. Married people love to divert the conversation to relationships as if their functionality is impressive. Boastful Tetris pieces showing off their most improved player of the year trophy. Reluctantly, I must admit that that Bowling For Soup song ‘High School Neverends’ is annoyingly accurate. Bewilderingly accurate. Maybe I was happier at school or happier thinking there was more to life. The Traffic Lights are laughing whilst they fuck my siblings.
After work, the lights take on a new meaning in the dark. I enjoy not being seen, even more, unidentifiable amongst the herd. My thoughts seem less obvious. When you’re shoved into these little groups, you can’t help but get in line. For the most part, anyway, some use these brief moments of freedom to pretend to be free. We like to think it is easier to breathe out here. Those with massive briefcases decide they are first. Those with the gritted smiles as their back gets lashed whilst they profile the latest Calvin Klein. Toom Tabard. Me? I litter.
Each car going by screaming for help. Exhausted horses galloping down the same track. I’m jealous of their comfort and vulnerability. They can turn the reins ever so slightly and take power back. I have to march several feet before I receive unwanted attention. I face the ground and watch it darken and brighten. Darken and brighten, darken and brighten. Every fucking day. I press the button in the mornings, but at night, some other cunt does it for me.
They probably think, “who you kidding?” as they submit our direction. Coerced consent. We must all move forward. When will my bitterness morph into acceptance?
You don’t rebel in a suit; you die in a suit.
Tomorrow I’m not pressing that fucking button.