1st day of the week
Sunday, September 18th, 2005Monday– another monday out of the long string of mondaytuesdaywednesdaythursdayfriday that seem to march on like a squad of primitive non-AI robots straight out of Shaider. It’s one of those days when your mind simply cannot focus and you come to the conclusion that your skull must be filled with a substance the texture of dry sawdust. Slowly your eyes blink like a lizard’s to take in the chaos of printouts and scratch paper on your desk, your pencil poised in midair, your mind somewhere between the Andromeda and Vega galaxies. Distantly, you hear a tinny voice in your ear urging you to hurry up and meet the deadline this afternoon, chiding you for not functioning when there’s so much to be done. Outside your cramped cubicle, you hear the usual sounds of a small advertising and publishing agency at work, an air-conditioned hive alive with the buzz of lowered voices and the clicking of computer keyboards, punctuated by occasional telephone bleeps.
The human mind is not a machine that can be placed all day in a small cubicle, fed with information, and expected to churn out brilliantly creative ideas and scintillating ad copy. Or i don’t know. Perhaps some people can do it, but i can’t. Maybe it’s because the job is so indoor and stationary. Or maybe i just do not find the work very interesting after all. Or maybe it’s just that the excitement of novelty has worn off and it’s become merely routine. Or it may also be that i am simply tired.
