Automation

I brought work home today, but in typical lit style, I was so enervated by dinner that the papers still lie snugly in my bag. If I ever stir from my stupor, I might just have a quick read before I sleep (it might just speed up the process).

It's slightly unsettling how regular a routine office life is. Every day is the same cycle of clambering out of bed, dragging my bleary-eyed self onto the train (which I really, really hate... rush-hour commuting should be a circle in Hell reserved for particularly heinous sinners), trudging my way to my office, spending the day at work, and reversing the sequence in the evening. Repeat ad infinitum.

C'est la vie, indeed.

To be fair, it's not that I don't find meaning in my work. What causes the discomfort is when I realise that, bit by bit, I'm getting attuned to unthinking routine. There is a corollary (if perhaps unfounded) worry that I'm getting used to being unthinking. I've already surrendered most of what passed for my intellect to the army - giving back to the country, after all - so I'm jealously hoarding the little that's still in my possession; kinda like how the British are clinging on to the remnants of their empire.

Maybe I'm not too young to die, but I certainly am too young to become dull and plodding. Unfortunately, the latter is much more likely to occur than the former in the forseeable future. Just stay tuned, and you'll probably catch it unfolding before your eyes.