Monotony

The constant and continuous repetition of the same action; day in and day out that causes the mind to go stale and the imagination to run dry. It is this monotonous daily routine that causes my ultimate displeasure. I know not how to fully describe my distaste for this state of mind but I shall put it as best I can. I suppose it’s close to a form of medieval torture, subtly performed by the people whom I am forced to operate under due to their seats of power. I hold nothing against these people personally. Solely due to the fact that they are an authority figure above my own position I have a distaste for them. If I had known them in any other way I could be a friend to them but I do not and therefore cannot. I do not believe it is their intent to cause me this sense of boredom through their daily rituals but that it happens through a natural unfolding of events that are unavoidable under normal circumstances. I can’t attribute this feeling solely to my superiors and the people I show respect. The same faces I see dragging themselves down the sidewalk as they go from place to place have a strong attributing factor. They are like me I assume. They feel the same discomfort of routine that I am forced to endure. This is purely speculative though, not to be taken as fact. Then there are the meals all of us must sit through each day. We try to entertain ourselves with new ideas of how to enjoy our dining but it always seems to end in the same manner. Then we go back to our rooms, our holes, our cells. The gray interiors are a true testament to the creative inducing dens we are given. The uniformity of each room is only altered by the pictures and posters we attempt to decorate with. They will not last though, they never do. Posters are thrown from the walls at all hours of the day by the wretched monotony that the walls are made of. These walls spit any form of creativity off of themselves in any way they can imagine. It is as though the walls cannot stand to show any sign of individualism for an extended period. They must think if they change from their uniformity they would surely crumble to the streets they look down upon.  These are only a few of the pieces that make up the puzzle eating the sanity from my mind; but by no means are they the worst. The worst would have to be the metal doors. Those accursed metal doors that slam with the anger that is being welled up inside of every person who comes into contact with them. It is though the doors can sense the trapped rage that each of us possesses and instead of relieving us, it merely mirrors it into a loud crash used solely for the purpose of driving me mad. Those doors are the ultimate apex of my hatred and disgust. Those doors taunt me with every closing; they are all laughing at me each time they are closed. That is not important now. I have told you as well as I could about the things that get under my skin. I only hope that I have described it with enough detail to truly show how I feel.