Office Space

Suite 4047- Long View, Martina Geccelli

I found that I was compulsively trying to smuggle myself into every conceivable situation. I had to be part of what was going on, no matter what was going on, no matter how unlikely my involvement. I had to be in it. I had to be a part of it. Or should I say that my mind was trying to smuggle itself into every possible situation – maybe that’s a better way of putting it? Or was it that it was trying to smuggle me in? Or maybe it was the other way around entirely. I don’t know. Maybe it was that I was trying to sneakily import my mind into every situation, and then my mind was returning the favour by smuggling me in. Maybe it comes to the same thing. Maybe it doesn’t. I’m sitting here on the floor of an old abandoned office space looking at a stack of cracked dust-covered monitors piled up at the side of the room. The floor is also thick with dust. It is littered with yellowing sheets of paper and bits of burnt-out circuit board. I know that this is my own brain, that the shards of blackened circuit board are my brain. My mind is telling me this. The old office room is my brain and I’m sitting in my brain. I’m sitting there amidst all the dust and bits of rubbish wondering how I got there. Wondering what the hell I’m doing there. Sitting there in the shell of my own burnt-out mind staring at the blackened walls and piled up prehistoric computer monitors trying to work out what the hell happened. Beads of congealed solder everywhere, leftovers from an ancient power surge. Only I’m not I’m back home in 35 Beaminster sitting on the sofa watching a TV show and my mind is telling me that the TV show is all about me. Only I’m not I’m back in the flat in Wellpark and its many, many years later and I’m writing all this out in my notepad trying to make some sense of my life and what it was all supposed to be about. What the point of it all was. If there was any point. Did it have anything to do with me at all, I wonder? Maybe it didn’t. Maybe it was just my mind telling me that it did? Was it all just an exercise in recursive self-referentiality, I wonder? Working backwards forever in self-cancelling spirals. I feel that I’m on the edge of understanding something big, teetering precariously on the very edge of understanding, and then I’m back there in the office space again staring numbly at the ruins of my own burnt-out personality system, playing with shards of ideas that no longer make any sense to me…










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