Just an average day.

A gloom and melancholy misery stifles the regurgitated depression that is my only company. I lift my eyelids, and for a punishing moment the imperfections on the flaking brown walls of my cell mimic the joyous faces of children. That is, the sadistic sneer of the boy who takes pleasure in removing the legs of a spider, and watching it squirm helplessly. All I really wish for is silence. I simply want to exist and nothing more. For what is life, but words and concepts. Pre- packaged, pre-coded.

My mattress breathes a low wail as the decaying springs subside, fingers caressing the dank copper stains on my sheets. My feet ache and twitch – I have not moved from this spot in two days. Welcome to my lonely world- a £25 a week bed-sit, in an area that many refer to as the ‘bedpan’ of the city. This is my island. A sturdy rock, in a deep and misguiding ocean. My utopian cell is the only place I can be free.

Out there, life goes on for the masses. When I am still, I hear the lonesome footsteps of the policeman who solemnly patrols these streets. And in the city, a merchant banker files his notes for the day. In the country, a farmer smiles proudly upon the orchard that he planted a decade ago. The fruit glistens and sparkles in the morning sun. Remember it was that apple that took immortality from eve. But these naïve strangers will never die. Indeed, they have never lived.

Often I ask myself, how did I become this being that I am. Soul- less and emotionless. Once, I deemed myself successful. I was 27 and I had held down a full time office job. It bored me terribly, but it paid well and back then, to me money was everything. This was my life, everyday, repetitive and dull. It had been for the past five years. But I didn’t know, that soon money would be nothing to me. Nor would my job that I had worked for, so long and so hard.

June 20th. I remember it so well: my death and my rebirth. My alarm clock tolled at 6:30, on cue. The radio flicked on automatically and boldly announced yet more “terrorist” attacks in the USA, while British and American troops freely crawl over Arab soil and settle with authority. I put on my grey trousers and grey jacket for work.

The door of my suburban semi swung open jubilantly that morning as bright bars of sunlight shone through the distorted windows casting blurred mystical patterns on the sitting room wall. I locked the door.

Across the street, a parade of neatly manicured children marched a solemn procession to their classes, for another day of institutionalisation. A light summer breeze tickled the soft young hairs on their heads, blossom danced playfully along the curb. It would have been the perfect day for a child to play. But these children, in their grey blazers and immaculately polished leather shoes marched in to the dismal concrete building- Gestapo- style. They would learn how the “victorious” British, over centauries have creped up on the “Wild” foreign heathen as he cares for his children and cooks his dinner, to tame him with the sword.

Next, I passed the library. Through the large window I saw a score of labouring students, occupying their noses in various books, all far to thick to possibly read. Because they must work hard. This country needs a plentiful supply of lawyers and architects. This way it wouldn’t be them sweeping the streets and emptying the bins. Such vital jobs demand no respect.

Sickened, I persevered, to the traffic lights around the corner. Five or ten people waited in patience, for the endless stream of intoxicating traffic to slow to a trickle. The green man said go. So they went.

A police car sped by as I reached the office complex. Grey men in grey suits buzzed around the courtyard. They will have their briefcases full of papers. Their shoes will be tied; their moustaches will be trimmed. Their ties will be plain in colour, black or brown because anything else would be unprofessional. They will greet each other with a polyester smile and remember their manners.

I reached the desk. My receptionist, trying to look pleased to see me announced in a public- service tone; “Mr Jones, the executive is ready to see you now”.

I placed my briefcase on the desk. Turned. And never returned. Just an average day rolled fresh off society’s production line. I am just a pawn in societies games. Games of life, games of the mind. So I swooned on to my DFS sofa and decided, that here is where society and myself divide. They think I’m mad. I’m deranged. I never left that house, living on what little food I had. Scared to face the mechanism that manipulates us all. Freedom? Who knows what freedom is. Real freedom is the absence of anything.

Eventually, I got evicted. Physically removed from my house after I could neither afford the rent, nor face the landlord. So this was the only place I could find. A dirty bed-sit. But it’s my bed-sit. I control it. My neighbours are drug addicts, ex-cons and alcoholics. These are the waste, the “scum” of society. They are heroes. They are the ones who dared to work against the machine. I am mad, but you are the one in the straight jacket.