C goes running to the back of the office. She has decided that running to and from locations is a good way to keep the blood flowing. An alternative to coffee, a great way to charge the brain and increase productivity. While bouncing through the office she makes the ‘sound’ of running, a light up and down tone.
S: I just think that you are being unprofessional, that’s all.
C: What is professional? What is professional about Z taking off her shoes and walking around the office? And who is to say that professional isn’t an anarchy against the natural justice of our bodies? Just because we might not know a better system, who is to say that this system is the best, maybe professional is just another type of sickness or something, like a cancer, that finally reveals its ills after enough time, enough churning and mounting of professionalism.
C walks away thinking ‘Then the body decays, gets wiped out by the repetition of emptiness, boredom, a sense of conformity without a specific dictator, no all seeing god of the office insisting on the mundane droll, while the electric clock is ticking silently. Carpet shuffles become calling cards, the weight and movement indicates who is sneaking up behind me to see me reading The Times rather than doing my professional activities. Activity is the only morality these days. No need to look at quality. No time. We live in the century where time is being eaten by activity, productivity, "progress". We have developed into mechanism. The timing of phone calls and paper pushing rewards my humanity, it is the social sugar cube in my mouth for my job well done, I am a labor horse that daydreams fields of thought where I can graze at my own pace. Maverick. Wild. Lawless.’
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