You hate that blank, recorded female voice. Fuck. Still stupid fucking metro belated thing as always. Your boss will start really hating the fact you don’t own a car, which is why you are always late. Not that he ever really liked you anyways. What’s the point of all these boring cinq à sept and wasted Thursday nights?
Maybe you should, then, just buy one. It might led you to a promotion, finally.
Oh, wait, you remember you can’t really afford one. Still trying to reimburse your student debt, as well as pay for that 12 months-payment big ass screen.
Might as well give up on ever seeing Paris.
You’ve been dreaming since you were about fourteen to stand there and be face to face, eye in eye, with the Mona Lisa.
Maybe that Dan Brown book you really loved had something to do with all your fantasies. Not that you'd ever voice that one out loud.
In your dream, contrarily to what further in life you’ll finally figure out with a pain as an hard blow in the stomach, there would be no flashes, no crowds of Korean tourists, and no security guard screaming « CIRCULEEEEZ!!!! ». There would be just the two of you. She’d stand there, beautiful, mystical, supreme, with her most infamous smile; the paradigm of the romantic tragedy… like coming from another time; a foreign beauty, forever ungraspable and watching distant from the canvas, moving as if a screen…
9h47. « I’m screwed ». Not that being late is that bad, really. Not that 17 minutes really impact on the annual profit margin of the company. It's just that, all these brain-dead manucured secretaries will whisper to each other over coffee break who and who was late, how many times during the last X time period, how shitty they are behaving, and how it is so unfair to them who are always there 10 minutes before everybody, and shit. This crap drives you crazy.
You look up at that Berri-UQAM screen that you can’t help but despise, mostly because it doesn’t work half of the time. Next train in four minutes. You then look around you to notice that everybody else is also looking at the screen, hypnotized, completely obvious to the people around them. Wow. The day they installed those, you tell yourself, most likely pickpockets made Champagne sales go up.
As you grow old, time seems to pass by so fast you can’t even take into account what is present and what is past. You can’t even follow your own train of thoughts; always left on the platform, panting because you missed it again.
You stopped noticing the little details, the smelt of coffee in the morning, how the fabric feels against your skin as you slip into your shirt, how soft your daughter’s lips are on yours as she pecks you goodbye,…
all you notice is that you’re late, late, late.
Lost in an empty space of not-where-you-should-be-s at the moment you are in.
You stopped noticing the chilly breeze, shrugged at the beauty of the agony-coloured leaves; dying for beauty you don't even see. Barely caring… you stopped reading the newspapers, too, because you don’t have the time nor the mental energy to…
You stopped noticing the little details, like how they started to install all these cameras of surveillance in the streets.
You are, simply stated, too busy.
Everybody watches the screen, and the screen watches everybody.
Somehow this sentence - who said it first? - makes sense.
You read somewhere recently that the cameras even talk back in some towns in the United Kingdom, like in that 1984 movie…
but who the fuck cares, really.
It’s all headlines, sensationalist repetitiveness, words too fast and too many to mean anything, a dull cacophony that puts you to sleep… every day, every night, just waiting for a sun that doesn't shine.
Let's just say one thing, then, for the sake of all that's ever been real, albeit quiescent somewhere in the depths of your memory:
... there’s a fair chance this road taken half-willingly will not lead you where you first wanted to be… since you've fallen asleep at the wheel.
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