Stream of Consciousness III [journal]
May. 21st, 2005 06:59 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kyrasantaeYou can be either a slave to one or a slave to many, but still serve many.
A doctor must serve many, but he only serves one master: the Hippocratic oath. He decides what is best for his patients based on what he knows as a professional.
A mechanic serves many people in a day as well, and although some people might approach him with a specific thing in their car that needs to be fixed, for the most part, his job is to find out what's wrong with the car and do what he can to repair it, or do routine things like oil changes and stuff.
But I must serve many masters. Every customer is a new master -- I must do to their specifications. I am not an instrument in shaping their lives or their wellbeing, or somehow affecting their estate, but slaving to fill their bellies the way they want it to be filled. I can't give any opinion or advice, only do what they want me to do.
How can I be human if I can't exercise any educated information or opinion?
How can I be human if I'm just a slave, doing 100+ other people's biddings?
How can I be human if I'm not allowed to make any decisions or suggestions?
=
There I will never be any more than a face with a name -- never really know who the others are, where they've been, their stories. Only know them as smiles. And even then, don't really want to know the smiles since they remind me of how fake this all is.
I had a Rajaton dream. I worked with them, sang with them, asked them questions, drank with them. And they cared who I was and I was more than willing to help them in any way I could.
And I dreamed of being on stage, introducing my song to the audience, reading in heavily accented Finnish off a sheet of paper a speech that I had written but someone had translated for me.
I dreamed of being significant, and looked on as human. Of being treated as having free will.
=
I'm watching hope go up in smoke - it's only a matter of time until I can no longer pluck it out of the flames and blow it out.
The only solution I can think of that would satisfy all parties relies on that hope. If it fails me I will be trapped in this hell for months, dreading every moment every night before work, instead of looking forward to something to do and using those nights to do good and interesting things like music or painting.
But all I can do right now is to downplay how much I hate it because I know there are some close to me who think this is a necessary people skill to learn this way, when (although there is that measure of intereaction) the other issues are the sheer monotony and cash registers inseparably associated with bitchgirl.
=
I'm waiting for you to come back. (Well, I could say that to a lot of things.)
=
I suspect that I may have to live with this pain for the rest of my life. (Well, I could say that for fewer, but still a lot of things.)
=
A moment of falling glass / Shattering in slow motion / Maybe I can reach out / And catch it before it's too late / Or even after that / Before it becomes too many pieces.
=
I am frozen up in a fear I have no choice but to face.
I want to be at school again because I want to be doing something with my brain, something intelligent, something that makes me think and solve problems.
I can hate homework a lot but I don't hate it any more than this work.
I am worried because the longer and more I work and the more I talk about it, the faster I'm running out of ideas and the ability to articulate what is it I hate about this job... and the more desperate I am to get out of here and to a job I'm actually comfortable doing.
A doctor must serve many, but he only serves one master: the Hippocratic oath. He decides what is best for his patients based on what he knows as a professional.
A mechanic serves many people in a day as well, and although some people might approach him with a specific thing in their car that needs to be fixed, for the most part, his job is to find out what's wrong with the car and do what he can to repair it, or do routine things like oil changes and stuff.
But I must serve many masters. Every customer is a new master -- I must do to their specifications. I am not an instrument in shaping their lives or their wellbeing, or somehow affecting their estate, but slaving to fill their bellies the way they want it to be filled. I can't give any opinion or advice, only do what they want me to do.
How can I be human if I can't exercise any educated information or opinion?
How can I be human if I'm just a slave, doing 100+ other people's biddings?
How can I be human if I'm not allowed to make any decisions or suggestions?
=
There I will never be any more than a face with a name -- never really know who the others are, where they've been, their stories. Only know them as smiles. And even then, don't really want to know the smiles since they remind me of how fake this all is.
I had a Rajaton dream. I worked with them, sang with them, asked them questions, drank with them. And they cared who I was and I was more than willing to help them in any way I could.
And I dreamed of being on stage, introducing my song to the audience, reading in heavily accented Finnish off a sheet of paper a speech that I had written but someone had translated for me.
I dreamed of being significant, and looked on as human. Of being treated as having free will.
=
I'm watching hope go up in smoke - it's only a matter of time until I can no longer pluck it out of the flames and blow it out.
The only solution I can think of that would satisfy all parties relies on that hope. If it fails me I will be trapped in this hell for months, dreading every moment every night before work, instead of looking forward to something to do and using those nights to do good and interesting things like music or painting.
But all I can do right now is to downplay how much I hate it because I know there are some close to me who think this is a necessary people skill to learn this way, when (although there is that measure of intereaction) the other issues are the sheer monotony and cash registers inseparably associated with bitchgirl.
=
I'm waiting for you to come back. (Well, I could say that to a lot of things.)
=
I suspect that I may have to live with this pain for the rest of my life. (Well, I could say that for fewer, but still a lot of things.)
=
A moment of falling glass / Shattering in slow motion / Maybe I can reach out / And catch it before it's too late / Or even after that / Before it becomes too many pieces.
=
I am frozen up in a fear I have no choice but to face.
I want to be at school again because I want to be doing something with my brain, something intelligent, something that makes me think and solve problems.
I can hate homework a lot but I don't hate it any more than this work.
I am worried because the longer and more I work and the more I talk about it, the faster I'm running out of ideas and the ability to articulate what is it I hate about this job... and the more desperate I am to get out of here and to a job I'm actually comfortable doing.
