Inside the building are filled with duties and crunched deadlines to be met. Where the small walls are covered in mold and discoloration from the constant work being done, unable to receive proper cleaning. Where the workers run from one side to another in a never-ending loop of a building. Loud noises to be heard everywhere due to the noisy sewing machine and chatter. However, despite the noises and questionable conditions, we stay silent. Why would we stop being grateful for what is all here, by disturbing the peace now?
“Silk is truly a beautiful material, don’t you think?”
I mutter while my hands work on the fabric. Carefully sewing each stitch, a routine to be done right. Whenever working with silk, I’m reminded of a summer’s day at sea the old folks always tell in stories. How peaceful it felt being washed away from harsh thoughts. However, this is to be only passed down upon families to friends, to make problems seem quieter. For now, I follow the routine that is my story.
-
It takes a step closer, the prey see the lines of silk shaking.
-
Another day passes and heavy clouds of rain touch everything upon its path. It even feels chilly today and the building only proceeds to scream my name louder than ever before. The routine is all the same: small workers roaming about, sounds of spindling fabric, the walls, and air feeling stuffy and concentrated. However, everything feels like it’s closing in. Tighter and tighter, wrapping all around us like a venomous snake, the bruises and cracks increasing. Perhaps time itself was passing even slower than a snail towards the building that never stops.
Then it happens:
The golden light collapses.
-
Eight eyes, eight legs - it captures.
The prey, stuck within the many silks, screams in silence.
-
I lay upon the debris that covers all the ground. The air is cold. Remembering what the golden light used to be. It hurts to see what it has become. The workers on the ground - are they conscious? Will they live to see another day? To the very air I breathe reminds me of the filthy reality of the world I live in - soot. Black. Everywhere. The wounds that use to come from only my hands, now cover all of my head to foot and in more extreme pain. Now, the broken pieces from the building, the once golden light, whispers one word into their slowly dying person:
Trash.
It’s right - following the foolishness of my thoughts is what led me here. Believing this building would be my shot into becoming flawless. From what I could see, a line of silk was placed on a small growing plant as if nothing had happened by the events. Within looking further, a beautiful web was placed on the plant with the spider and prey. The spider will win every time, that's how the story goes. A story I know is all too real.
Before death captures me, one final thought appears one that is different from the past. No longer do I envision what those corporation bosses will say about the power in their hands. Instead, what they take and strive for is the capturing of those who are innocent allowing for them to dream for a better life, with no intentions to help. Only to provide a trap for them in the webs they call work. Their hands are only seen as greasy and black for that is what they are. I drift away and could only think of one thing:
In the end, are we not the ones that created these monsters, allowing for them to grow in control?
d discoloration from the constant work being done, unable to receive proper cleaning. Where the workers run from one side to another in a never-ending loop of a building. Loud noises to be heard everywhere due to the noisy sewing machine and chatter. However, despite the noises and questionable conditions, we stay silent. Why would we stop being grateful for what is all here, by disturbing the peace now?
“Silk is truly a beautiful material, don’t you think?”
I mutter while my hands work on the fabric. Carefully sewing each stitch, a routine to be done right. Whenever working with silk, I’m reminded of a summer’s day at sea the old folks always tell in stories. How peaceful it felt being washed away from harsh thoughts. However, this is to be only passed down upon families to friends, to make problems seem quieter. For now, I follow the routine that is my story.
-
Another day passes and heavy clouds of rain touch everything upon its path. It even feels chilly today and the building only proceeds to scream my name louder than ever before. The routine is all the same: small workers roaming about, sounds of spindling fabric, the walls, and air feeling stuffy and concentrated. However, everything feels like it’s closing in. Tighter and tighter, wrapping all around us like a venomous snake, the bruises and cracks increasing. Perhaps time itself was passing even slower than a snail towards the building that never stops.
The golden light collapses.
-
Eight eyes, eight legs - it captures.
I lay upon the debris that covers all the ground. The air is cold. Remembering what the golden light used to be. It hurts to see what it has become. The workers on the ground - are they conscious? Will they live to see another day? To the very air I breathe reminds me of the filthy reality of the world I live in-soot. Black. Everywhere. The wounds that use to come from only my hands, now cover all of my head to foot and in more extreme pain. Now, the broken pieces from the building, the once golden light, whispers one word into their slowly dying person:
Trash.
It’s right - following the foolishness of my thoughts is what led me here. Believing this building would be my shot into becoming flawless. From what I could see, a line of silk was placed on a small growing plant as if nothing had happened by the events. Within looking further, a beautiful web was placed on the plant with the spider and prey. The spider will win every time, that's how the story goes. A story I know is all too real.
Before death captures me, one final thought appears one that is different from the past. No longer do I envision what those corporation bosses will say about the power in their hands. Instead, what they take and strive for is the capturing of those who are innocent allowing for them to dream for a better life, with no intentions to help. Only to provide a trap for them in the webs they call work. Their hands are only seen as greasy and black for that is what they are. I drift away and could only think of one thing:
In the end, are we not the ones that created these monsters, allowing for them to grow in control?
lurks in the silk web.
A puff of smoke rises from the ground, only filthy is the best way to describe it. From all the people, the skies, to the air I breathe, can all be related to one singular, simple, disgusting word:
My dirty shoes squeak with each step. Papers crumple under my feet, plastic bottles laying about and leftover wrappers to be left on the streets. The clouds filled with the people’s dirty desire to forever live on and takes us hostage for that cold hard cash.
Here I sit, with only the clothes on my back, waiting for my promised future of beauty and wealth. Just imagine the influence those corporation bosses have, power dripping off their hands, golden light to my small self. I, myself, yearn for that golden light within my own hands. I soon come back to reality with the sting of pain rising from the bleeding blisters of my hard-working hands.
Whenever thoughts like those are remembered, the world feels more polished, less grey.
It screams my name and a chill runs through my veins.
It buzzes nearby faith has run its course in the prey. An eight-legged creature takes a strike diligently.
-
Cracks can be seen everywhere on this building of opportunity. They stare through the depths of your soul, eyes creeping all around.
But I am no stranger to the grey numbness the building is known for.
Inside the building are filled with duties and crunched deadlines to be met. Where the small walls are covered in mold and discoloration from the constant work being done, unable to receive proper cleaning. Where the workers run from one side to another in a never-ending loop of a building. Loud noises to be heard everywhere due to the noisy sewing machine and chatter. However, despite the noises and questionable conditions, we stay silent. Why would we stop being grateful for what is all here, by disturbing the peace now?
“Silk is truly a beautiful material, don’t you think?”
I mutter while my hands work on the fabric. Carefully sewing each stitch, a routine to be done right. Whenever working with silk, I’m reminded of a summer’s day at sea the old folks always tell in stories. How peaceful it felt being washed away from harsh thoughts. However, this is to be only passed down upon families to friends, to make problems seem quieter. For now, I follow the routine that is my story.
-
Another day passes and heavy clouds of rain touch everything upon its path. It even feels chilly today and the building only proceeds to scream my name louder than ever before. The routine is all the same: small workers roaming about, sounds of spindling fabric, the walls, and air feeling stuffy and concentrated. However, everything feels like it’s closing in. Tighter and tighter, wrapping all around us like a venomous snake, the bruises and cracks increasing. Perhaps time itself was passing even slower than a snail towards the building that never stops.
The golden light collapses.
-
Eight eyes, eight legs - it captures.
I lay upon the debris that covers all the ground. The air is cold. Remembering what the golden light used to be. It hurts to see what it has become. The workers on the ground - are they conscious? Will they live to see another day? To the very air I breathe reminds me of the filthy reality of the world I live in-soot. Black. Everywhere. The wounds that use to come from only my hands, now cover all of my head to foot and in more extreme pain. Now, the broken pieces from the building, the once golden light, whispers one word into their slowly dying person:
Trash.
It’s right - following the foolishness of my thoughts is what led me here. Believing this building would be my shot into becoming flawless. From what I could see, a line of silk was placed on a small growing plant as if nothing had happened by the events. Within looking further, a beautiful web was placed on the plant with the spider and prey. The spider will win every time, that's how the story goes. A story I know is all too real.
Before death captures me, one final thought appears one that is different from the past. No longer do I envision what those corporation bosses will say about the power in their hands. Instead, what they take and strive for is the capturing of those who are innocent allowing for them to dream for a better life, with no intentions to help. Only to provide a trap for them in the webs they call work. Their hands are only seen as greasy and black for that is what they are. I drift away and could only think of one thing:
In the end, are we not the ones that created these monsters, allowing for them to grow in control?
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