The Betrayal of the Written Word

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: September 25, 2016

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Submitted: September 25, 2016



I see my manager walk into the store. His pace is brisk and his back straight. He sees me and merely nods. Acknowledging my presence, yet making sure not to cross the boundary that managers ought to stay on the other side of. If he gets too close to an employee, his position will be compromised. I can admire that in him. He seems to be dedicated to whatever cause he believes in. He whistles and lightly taps his feet to the awful music that echoes through the store. In his eyes one can see devotion to something beyond the Self. Or perhaps he is using this job, this management position, as a platform to greater and higher plateaus. Perhaps he is a hollow tree and this job somehow fills the void within him. It is certainly not unheard of. Perhaps over the years he got too tired of wandering aimlessly hither and tither when the answer was staring him right in the face. All he needed to do was reach out and grab it by the throat. And he finally has. His life is now much better than it used to be. He knows that taking responsibility is not about being a model citizen or conforming to the norm. Taking responsibility for something other than yourself could be, in a way, another path to discovering the Self. Makes you less arrogant, you know? He now realizes that even if taking responsibilities is tantamount to boredom and weariness, it is a much better alternative than sitting and thinking about what it means to live. He has given himself up to the tide, no matter how nonsensical it may seem. He has distanced himself from the cliches that plague the mind in younger years. No more walking around quoting Nietzsche and Camus, just good old living and taking comfort in simple pleasures of life which, in and of itself, could be a difficult art for some to master. But he has nonetheless mastered it. Is this why people dedicate themselves to a cause, no matter how futile it may seem in the long run? I do not know the answer, but maybe my manager does. I'm assuming that he's trying to distract himself from something that's deeply wrong with all of us, even if we don't want to admit it. By getting away from his own centre, he's discovering the missing pieces of his soul in places he'd never thought to look before. And as I follow his every movement with my eyes, I feel envy stabbing me in the heart over and over again. O how I wish I could be like him, how I wish I could put out the flame of youth within, these naive thoughts and misguided dedication to martyrdom that lead to nothing save for despair. I want to grab his hand and plead, beg him to teach me his ways, for I have come to despise my youthful mind, my selfish soul that cares for no one but his own intangible misery. Maybe if I burn my books and drown the noise in my head, I will live a much more fulfilling life. Maybe if I say goodbye to the written word, I can finally hear the value behind the words uttered by those around me. This is what I want to tell my manager, to let him know that the real reason I read is not to expand my mind, but to hide behind the comfort of the written word. Did I then make a mistake in trusting the written word? The written word never taught me how to dance, how to laugh, how to concentrate, how to feel content with what I have in life, how to control this tumults tide of emotions within my stupid and youthful soul. Now I feel as though I have been betrayed by the written word, and my manager is the one who knows the way out. 
And I am certain that one day, I will learn to come to terms with a life that consists of nothing but routines that I seem to take comfort in, but somehow hate at the same time. 
Maybe my manager knows the secret. 
Maybe he can tell me how to kill the written word. 

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