Writing

“We don't have a lot of time on this earth. We weren't meant to spend it this way. Human beings were not meant to sit in little cubicles staring at computer screens all day, filling out useless forms and listening to eight different bosses drone on about mission statements.”

- Office Space

I hated Dilbert. I laughed at Office Space and wrote it off as quaint. It wasn’t until I worked in an office that I gained a new perspective on these comedy’s. I began reading a bunch of testaments to the forgotten heroes who battle on everyday in an office. We are Leonidas’ 300. Insanity is our Persian army, stomping forward every second as our spirits try to rise up from their broken and destroyed state. Our pass of Thermopylae varies from person to person. For some it’s music, others turn to the inane world of social networking, and a precious few turn to artistic expression. In a world where creativity is stifled and constantly battered against, the creative are our prized possessions, talked about in hushed voices and with amazement: “Ally is dancer”, “Katya is a fashion designer”, “Chad is a writer”. We cling to these notions of creativity, we say that it’s because we love expressing ourselves…but I’ve come to another more shocking conclusion: I call myself a writer to avoid calling myself an office worker.

Being called an office worker is a fate that I will probably spend the entirety of my life trying to avoid. Yet, in the end, the best jobs in the world are desk jobs. Every writer spends hours and hours in front of a laptop or stuck at their desk scribbling thoughts and outlines on legal pads. Lawyers are respected members of their community, every child with a shred of intellect and ambition wishes to be one, but ultimately the job is glorified bookwork and no lawyer will tell you different. Do you want to be an actor? If you wish to stay employed or have any creative input on your work, be prepared to be chained to your chair reading a bunch of scripts. Musician? Either the lyrics or the actual composing will chain you to your desk. That's just the nature of having a career, no matter how much you enjoy doing something there will come a point where the creativity is sapped and the joy is removed and you just find yourself stuck with the obligation to create something better than the one that came before it. As the futility of trying to avoid the office life get’s barreled into your skull , you begin to feel a lot like Peter Gibbons. Except you’re not fucking Jennifer Anniston, so the silver lining is a bit thinner.

I myself began to look for anyway out of the quicksand. Today was one of those days where I took upon the role of Steve McQueen and led me and my creative drive outside to a Great Escape. As soon as I finished my assigned tasks I began running towards a friends house--and straight into the rain. At first it was a sprinkle and then it was a tsunami, covering me in water. I walked for four miles. My black tight jeans were riding up and causing an uncomfortable amount of chafing. I could barely tell where my skin began in comparison to my now wet and tight Led Zepplin shirt. And I could feel every ounce of slime gather in my shoes (I had opted not to wear socks this day). Alone, cold, and with aching knees, I found myself imagining this piece and writing it down all in my head. I sang songs, I painted pictures, and for the first time since I began working in an office: I felt free.

As the rain began to clear and the people on the streets of Miami began to notice I existed, I found myself bombarded with questions. All of them ending in “What are you doing?” and the only thing I could say to that last one was oddly simple. With a pride filled voice and without a pen in my hand or even a paper to imagine text appearing on…

“I’m writing.”

And for the first time in a long time, it wasn’t merely an escape from my cubicle cage.