All the mechanical noises,
the thrum of electricity in the veins of my cubicle,
the brief beeps of protest
   elicited by a misplaced cursor,
the buzz of my monitor,
even the flicker of my digital picture frame,
conspire against my creativity,
damming the imaginative river in my mind,
my soul,
until I am little more than a puddle
   of routines and habits and patterns,
dependent on these incessantly sighing machines,
a zombie of clicks and taps,
with one eye on the clock,
  one hand on the black dome of the mouse,
dazzled by by manipulation of the technological world,
and oblivious to that world's manipulation
   of me.




cin said:

AHHH! Poetry I understand! and comiserate with... (is that the right word, aud?) yaya!

ames said:

time to go attack a copy machine with a baseball bat, eh aud?

Susan said:

Living only two cubicles away, this so well describes my experience until our talk - and now I am more aware and though thankful for a job that pays me well, it is just that - a job. It is not who I am. Thank you Audrey for shining a light.

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About this Entry

This page contains a single entry by Audrey Camp published on August 18, 2008 11:34 AM.

A Tall Spire of Curious Workmanship (or what the Camps did on Sunday) was the previous entry in this blog.

The Absence of One is the next entry in this blog.

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