Spark.

i always resented all the years, the hours, the
minutes i gave them as a working stiff, it
actually hurt my head, my insides, it made me
dizzy and a bit crazy — i couldn’t understand the
murdering of my years
yet my fellow workers gave no signs of
agony, many of them even seemed satisfied, and
seeing them that way drove me almost as crazy as
the dull and senseless work.

the workers submitted.
the work pounded them to nothingness, they were
scooped-out and thrown away.

i resented each minute, every minute as it was
mutilated
and nothing relieved the monotonous ever-
structure.

i considered suicide.
i drank away my few leisure hours.

i worked for decades.

i lived with the worst of women, they killed what
the job failed to kill.

i knew that i was dying.
something in me said, go ahead, die, sleep, become
them, accept.

then something else in me said, no, save the tiniest
bit.
it needn’t be much, just a spark.
a spark can set a whole forest on
fire.
just a spark.
save it.

i think i did.
i’m glad i did.
what a lucky god damned
thing.

-charles bukowski

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