Across this lifeless city, long before the unbroken promise of dawn, a sudden cacophony of alarm bells and ring tones rattle the rooftops of silent suburbia, heralding another working day.
For the day to kick off smoothly and painlessly, a succession of timely, rigid rituals must ensue. Breakfast by five-thirty, shower at six. By seven, I'm heating up the engine and the leather beneath my shivering body.
As the sun crawls its way across my windshield, I crawl along a three lane motorway passing 100km speed limit signs at 40km per hour. Every illuminated trapezoid in front of me carries the sad silhouette of a single soul. Their cars running on fuel, purchased by their licensed owners, so that they may drive themselves to the place where they earn the money to run their vehicles. The road to work and back, I thought, was nothing more than a hamster wheel, taking each of us nowhere.
A bespoke, navy jacket swings from a hook above a passenger window. In the driver's seat its owner gesticulates animatedly on his hands free. Up ahead a young woman demonstrates an aptitude for multitasking, applying mascara with the seasoned precision of a surgeon's hand while simultaneously steering with a take away coffee cup in the other. I sit here amongst them, in my carefully considered attire squinting through the silver condensation, all eyes ahead, our final destination - conveniently obscured from the hazy horizon.
To me however, at that moment, my final destination presents itself with crystal clarity. On the right, my employers; to the left, the crematorium. How convenient.
The promise of work/life balance is an enticing lure. It is a lie. If it's dark when you leave and dark when you return, how much time do you have left to really 'live'? The days melt into a seamless week, a week distinguishable only by anticipated weekends.
We perform our well-rehearsed tricks, logged-in to a machine that spits out a treat every fortnight. So well-trained are we, that self identity is eventually relinquished. We become what we do, until the second week of annual leave when we finally surrender to the gradual, painstaking reemergence of the familiar self, only to be abruptly shrouded once again upon return.
Is it selfish of me to want more from life than this? The purpose of our lives is to realise ourselves. Every day that I veer away from that path of realisation I not only betray myself, I betray life itself.
Sure we all have to work to feed ourselves and our families, so very few of us get to do what we love and get paid for it. But what makes those few any different from us? Life rewards them well. Merely for having the courage to make that decision. Granted, their loved ones may have suffered for it, but it's usually temporary. The alternative, is to spend our whole lives suffering, with little reward, if any.
When I recently shared my disillusions with my brother, he said, "You'll get use to it, people can get use to anything." Yes we can. History has proved this more than once. We can even get used to abuse.
There's a quote that's been wearing itself out across social media - "The day you win the race is the day you stop running." If you don't have the courage to make that decision, to stop. Life will make it for you, eventually.
