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Age: 20
Current Status: N.e.e.t.
Birthday: 23th Dec'
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Talk.Now.Period.
Thursday, January 04, 2007
The fine line
It was the first working day of the year. 6.18am. I was running.
Across the road, glimpsing the students that were waiting for the sbs buses. In school uniform.
I suddenly felt distant, the school days long forgotten. I had joined the working class temporarily. The bus at 6.20am was packed as usual. Everyday I play a game of blackjack with the bus. Over 21 points and your bust. 6.21am, the time the bus leaves the stop. JJC seemed so untouchable in the distance, as year ones stumbled into the compound, unsure of the 3 months they would spend there.
Darkness, inside and out, every morning, eating away at my life.
The bus is like a sickbed, an illness hotspot. Coughing passengers, invisible in the dark, propelled germs that ploughed their way through the harsh air conditioning to the next nesting ground.
Thank god for dettol.
Yes, its cold every morning, but snuggling up to the male bangla next to you hardly seems a logical or morally correct choice. It would not do. 30 minutes of semi-sleep mode, coupled with the scent(or stench) of the worker next to you that had run out of toothpaste.
Passive poisoning, I call it.
Binds irreversibly to the haemoglobin in your red blood cells.
The bus stops. You get shoved by the crowd in the bus out of it. The scene everyday. Like drones, you join a queue, and punch-in your card, binding you to the worksite until the day is done. the time is 6.50. You are 40 minutes early. They don't pay you for being early, just dock your pay if you're late. No wonder the boss is so fricking rich. Stingy B*stard. Between 7.30 and 16.30, you get a mass of workers swarming in, much like the colours of a rainbow, the sunburnt, the shivering with cold, and the ones with bruises. You begin to miss people. You begin to despair, you begin to want to stop working. And then your paycheck arrives. They short-changed you.
Ps.refer to comment on boss.
Well you're handling the issue of your paycheck well, a second gust of news knocks you off your feet. Other establishments pay more for less work to be done. Then you rue joining this company. And you suddenly want to be an art model at.......
Across the road, glimpsing the students that were waiting for the sbs buses. In school uniform.
I suddenly felt distant, the school days long forgotten. I had joined the working class temporarily. The bus at 6.20am was packed as usual. Everyday I play a game of blackjack with the bus. Over 21 points and your bust. 6.21am, the time the bus leaves the stop. JJC seemed so untouchable in the distance, as year ones stumbled into the compound, unsure of the 3 months they would spend there.
Darkness, inside and out, every morning, eating away at my life.
The bus is like a sickbed, an illness hotspot. Coughing passengers, invisible in the dark, propelled germs that ploughed their way through the harsh air conditioning to the next nesting ground.
Thank god for dettol.
Yes, its cold every morning, but snuggling up to the male bangla next to you hardly seems a logical or morally correct choice. It would not do. 30 minutes of semi-sleep mode, coupled with the scent(or stench) of the worker next to you that had run out of toothpaste.
Passive poisoning, I call it.
Binds irreversibly to the haemoglobin in your red blood cells.
The bus stops. You get shoved by the crowd in the bus out of it. The scene everyday. Like drones, you join a queue, and punch-in your card, binding you to the worksite until the day is done. the time is 6.50. You are 40 minutes early. They don't pay you for being early, just dock your pay if you're late. No wonder the boss is so fricking rich. Stingy B*stard. Between 7.30 and 16.30, you get a mass of workers swarming in, much like the colours of a rainbow, the sunburnt, the shivering with cold, and the ones with bruises. You begin to miss people. You begin to despair, you begin to want to stop working. And then your paycheck arrives. They short-changed you.
Ps.refer to comment on boss.
Well you're handling the issue of your paycheck well, a second gust of news knocks you off your feet. Other establishments pay more for less work to be done. Then you rue joining this company. And you suddenly want to be an art model at.......