Dip Me in Some Salt...

Cubicle People

They're all bored. Quietly, curiously, staring at each other. They have this ability to stare but not really notice there are people all around them. Quietly, seriously, surviving on their own.

It doesn't start this way. Nothing ever starts the way it ends.

When we're little and our fingers are soft and dirty, when our eyes are peeled with the hope that we miss absolutely nothing. We want so desperately to know everything, touch everything, and everyone. We want to ask the person sitting next to us, what that scar on their face is... and we do. We ask...

People, the kind with the wrinkled hands and frown lines, the ones who look through you, not at you. They judge. They judge us when we're three and curiously inquiring about their faces, or their skin. Our lack of filter is repulsive. They tell us to learn some manners, when all we're really asking is "why don't you look like me?" Feeling the wrath of the judgment, we learn what it's like to feel embarrassed, to blush for the first time, and we hide our face in shame. We become afraid to ask questions about things we see. Our minds stop wondering.

We stop noticing, and shortly after we stop caring.

We stop caring that the woman holding a role of drawing in one hand and her coffee in the other probably needs help holding the door open. We don't notice the man sobbing right next to us, snot dripping down his face, tears pouring onto his phone. And we certainly do not notice if someone is asking for help, even when they don't put it in so many words. The only time we actually stop and notice other people, is in the confinement of our four walled studio,where we can judge, without feeling judged by someone because we're judging, and pretend to be better than whatever reality tv show star is making a fool of themselves.

We're all stale versions of our younger selves. Saltine crackers without the salt. Living in cubicles ten hours a day. We go home, make our mcdinners: four ounces of chicken, a fourth cup serving of potatos, and our standard 6oz of better than cheap wine. Like our four-walled studio our life is confined, calculated, measured..whatever.



...and while i struggle with this idea of confinement,I realize that my identity is at stake. I don't want to not notice people, I don't want to see through people. I want to try and enjoy small talk, smile at homeless people, apologize to them for not having change to give them. I'm not really even sure what the point is of all ofthis..all i know is that it's been on my mind. There are way too many ways to avoid human interaction these days, if it's not an ipod, it's a cell phone, if it's not a cell phone it's a book..there are always these acceptable forms of avoidance. In an economy like this..i imagine peopleneed that human interaction, they need to connect, feel, even if it's with a complete stranger.

I could keep rambling, but this entry is just ridiculous babble...i guess what i'm saying is.. I don't want to be an unsalted cracker.