We are the legions of the overcaffeinated and the underslept, the overworked and the underfucked. Bleary eyed, we ride the subway plagued with apathetic rage and functional hysteria.
Beneath every cracked smile, a brewing hurricane. Behind every “I’m okay, thanks”, a dam that’s aching to burst.
“Until when?”, we ask.
At night, we self medicate. We exorcise our demons, sweating out every one of our neurosis in communal delirium. Synthetic joy, not unlike cheap polyester sweaters that we claw at on Boxing Day. Depleting our endorphins as we scrape the bottom of the clearance bin.
Hopelessness, neither friend nor foe but a companion assuring us of the futility of our efforts. Then, as always, the monotone female voice on the subway speaker politely reminds us that we’ve reached our destination.
She keeps us in check, she mocks us for our servitude and she’ll sound exactly the same tomorrow.
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