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

February 18, 2024