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The Diary Of The Forgotten Child

Another day in paradise, I woke up to sky’s of grey, unusual, as the weather seemed unforgiving these past few days, guess this was our day off. A calm breeze creeps through the cracks of my walls, almost greeting me with an enthusiastic grin, as though to say with a chipper demeanor, “Have a nice day”.

As I make my way out, the sun’s presence is made known, the clouds, though shielding us from its sight, can’t do much to protect us from its gaze. Faint signs of golden yellow can be seen from the cracks in the sky, the weather is as unforgiving as days before.

As I make my way to my concrete sanctum, I notice all the black and white costumes are nowhere to be seen, could they have gotten an early start on me?. They never look joyous in the mornings, I never looked joyous when I was one of them. No, they couldn’t have got the jump on me, I was clearly late, starting this grey day on an unfortuitous note.

Yes late indeed, but I don’t care much anymore. I guess I’m not really feeling the entities that occupy my workspace. Their constant blabbing about things that have no meaning really gets to me.

I start my day a few minutes late. This leaves me with less morning time than usual, it’s a problem, I don’t have enough minutes to gather my thoughts, and calculate the minutes to my freedom.

With a gush of wind, and a flying door, the first godless soul steps in, yelling out her previous day's exhibitions, as though I am her studio audience.  With no hello or other pleasantries, I’m already waist deep in a conversation, about 3 people I don’t know. I have no interest in their names, I assign crude nicknames as it’s easier for me to keep a clear head, while I’m being force-fed this latest horror story. Not the best story, especially not one worth my 8:15 am ‘youtube break’.

Sometime later, assailant number two walks in, like Napoleon in his prime, walking in with all that swagger, cape strategically placed in a 45-degree angle, as to not conform with the mainstream crowd. He is the older gentlemen in our little box. He’s okay, I guess, not the most intelligent of fish, but you could hold up a conversation with him.

Third to last, is our famed all rounder. He arrives in time to watch the sun finally show up. He walks in with a fearless demeanor, as though he runs this place, he’s a big part of it, but I doubt we would have any trouble without him.

Lastly, the old drunk wobbles in, it’s 9 am and he’s completely wasted. How is this even possible, he was drunk last I saw him, how can his body take it. How can our rulers condone this behavior, could it be, he’s just that good. Maybe that’s the goal, to be so good that not even god, questions you. He definitely follows his own gods.

The old drunk is the most tolerable of them all, he’s almost always philosophical in questioning the routine of day to day life. I try to spend as much time with the old drunk as I can, he’s a big part of what keeps me sane in this place, it’s almost like therapy, speaking with him. A fixed routine is said to be healthy, that’s why keeping the time is so important.

10 am radio silence. I’m in my own dimension now, history is the god of this dimension, and today my church is the Gunpowder Plot. 20 minutes of that, and it’s back to the grind, balance sheets, balanced and my day is over. I’m playing The Breakfast Club in my head to pass the time.

Routine is supposed to feel familiar, it's supposed to be that instant gratification, that conversation with yourself, where you’re saying “Everything is okay, we understand how this works”. It has become familiar over time, but there’s no gratification and speaking to myself has gotten troublesome over time. Writing it down helps, hope the distractions never end up reading this, it may seem that I’m a tad-bit mean.

I guess the purpose of this story, was to get it all out, to put all the negativity to use, to entertain more than just demons, and to finally live with a smile.


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