'Born On A Cusp'

I used to work in the outskirts of my small and peaceful town. On clearer days where clouds were thin and skies were seemingly watercolored in red and orange, I daydreamed that gravity was weighed and poured into an hourglass by a greater hand; little by little it trickled over the town, which was safely confined within the lower glass bulb of the invisible clock which I had imagined. Things were like this: it got slower the longer I was there.

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I would go home and find myself itching. Sandpapered polyurethane dust, caught within various nooks and crannies of my clothes, the culprit of my many months of sores and scratches. The people who sanded them off were worse. And yet when it was four o'clock in the late afternoon, they would be out front of the factory, seated comfortably at a small makeshift stall sipping their cups of teh, making small talk over local soap dramas, bollywood movies and meek dreams of materialism; resting a good thirty minutes before returning to their respective occupational hazards to clock in a few more hours of overtime. Frequently people would leave from developing allergies towards the dust. Few stayed, either from stubbornness or perception of easier earned wage, in comparison to the neighboring factories. I guess by then the gravity of their situation was too heavy, and mercilessly, it dragged their choices into non-existence.

Seated around a decent koi pond I would usually find the supervisors and key people of the factory, nonchalantly having a cigarette break together; oblivious especially to the time (and work). In natural human disrespect (and safely; behind backs), they often referred to the manager as botak (translated: baldy). He was in his early thirties. He took me in as he was reminded of his younger self when he saw what I was then: a body of fervor and youth; an inexperienced fresh graduate. On days where he was influenced by moods or situations, he alternated between being the harshest and the most lenient, to me. Only to me. On the night which I last saw him, he acknowledged the aforementioned in the presence of the other factory supervisors and administrators, in closing to my farewell dinner.

I wish the better for him and everyone I met there.

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I used to work in the outskirts of my small and peaceful town. On clearer days where clouds were thin and skies were seemingly watercolored in blue and white, I daydreamed that age was weighed and poured into an hourglass by a greater hand; little by little it trickled over the town, which was safely confined within the lower glass bulb of the invisible clock which I had imagined. Things were like this: it got older the longer I was there.

And so I left.

( _")

[Listening to: 'Born On A Cusp (Demo)' by The American Analog Set]