The Unknown Factory Worker

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Literary Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic


This is the story of an unknown factory worker.

Submitted: March 02, 2018

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Submitted: March 02, 2018

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The Unknown Factory Worker

By Joseph Logsdon

I am an unknown factory worker. Day after day, night after night, I toil away in a machine of despair, my thoughts empty and without purpose. All around me, from the left, to the right, all the way down towards the center of the room, where the workers usually gather for their meals, I see an endless stream of smoke. If I continue to work in this environment, I shall certainly die, but then again, what choice do I have? If I choose not to work, I will die, and if I work, I will also die, albeit slowly and painfully. Prior to dying on the outside, which will certainly happen, I will also die on the inside.

I am an unknown factory worker. You know, in a strange way, I’ve been dead for many years. Twenty years ago, I told myself, and I think this is the exact quote, “I’ll only be working for six months.” Well, as you can see, six months turned into six years, which ultimately turned into twenty years. To be perfectly honest, I wanted to be, of all things, a famous actor. It sounds crazy, I know, but that’s what I wanted to be. I auditioned for many different roles, almost always without success. According to the producers, most of whom worked for major corporations, I just wasn’t bankable. My demeanor, they said, would frighten too many people.

I am an unknown factory worker. When I leave work, it takes me several blocks to get home. On my way there, I see many signs, billboards, and advertisements, all of which are directed towards the lowest common denominator. This country, at least as far as I’m concerned, has abandoned its commitment to God. Rather than judging reality with our souls, which is what we should be doing, we judge it with our eyes and ears. We consume so very much, but give so very little. We do what feels good, conscious of nothing but our own pleasure. The world, not God, has become our reference point for meaning.

I am an unknown factory worker. My identity, to the vast majority of you, would not mean a damn thing. Believe it or not, had I been rich and famous, you would’ve definitely noticed me. In this country, as well as many others, your reputation is what counts, not your character. Sure, people won’t say that in public, but deep down, beneath all of the phony virtue, they know it to be true. Once you get that idea through your head, believe me, you’ll be better off. We should call out this world for what it is: a joke. You can call me a cynic, but that wouldn’t make my words any less true. Throughout history, there have been times for optimists, and there have been times for cynics. More than ever before, we are in need of cynics, preferably the religious kind.

I am an unknown factory worker. When I get home at night, my eyes full of sorrow, I begin to think about many things, none of them good. I stare into the abyss, pessimistic towards everything and everyone. My life, my very existence, is based upon the ability to make a living. If I can’t make a living, or if I refuse to make a living, I will ultimately die. At the end of the day, I have two choices: work or starve. Contrary to what some people might believe, there is no third option. Either way, I will ultimately lose my dignity. By choosing to work, I sacrifice my freedom, but by choosing not to work, I sacrifice my life. Well, we all have to die sometime, don’t we?

The End



© Copyright 2020 JL reaper. All rights reserved.

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