Workman’s Salary

A lone craftsman beats his mallet on the ground. His bones, the floor, and the teeth of people all around him vibrate with an uncomfortable chatter. 

He is fixing the floor; smoothing out the rough, oddly shaped, hole that was chipped there by thousands of uncaring boots. The air grows hazy to the eyes as you look towards him. Particles of plaster play in the air around him, dancing around each swing of the mallet. Swirls of undone work laugh at him as he slaves away to return those particles to their home. 

I walk towards him, my step purposely light to not chip the floor and worsen his workload. The rhythm of his mallet pierces the ears with a metronomic boredom.

The sound ricochets from aisle to aisle, making its way down an infinitely imprisoning store. There are no walls here to contain the mind; only infinite blankness to whip the soul into a repetitive back and forth that expects nothing from nothing. 

At least he has a job. Unlike those millions before him who died from disease, slavery, and wars waged by uncaring men. He has a life. And money to spend on it. His existence is not a plaything for a king or tyrannous blob. He does not invest his spirit into the game of war, of pestilence, of famine, or of death. He does not invest himself into the chants of brotherly soldiers who believe in the old lie. They scream, he beats. Each with their own ticking boredom that dilutes the soul.

I look at him and realize he’s smiling.