On becoming rats

Ennio Morricone's "Deborah's Theme" shirks through the plastered speakers of phonographs long forgotten by digital ears.

Its turntable belies a beautiful, smooth mahogany shell - a proud memoir of an age of craftsmen and their skilled trade before the machine took their work.

The work was faithful. short-lived, but faithful. With its share of drudgery and excitement sprinkled in between, the passion eventually became duty - a sweet, rotten cake, beyond any worker's appetite.

Laid off and let go, they file out of the factory bidding strange goodbyes, silently rubbing pennies with well-worn hands inbetween corduroy pockets. They left all they'd ever known, they'd never been so free, yet so captive to insecurity.

"What now? Where do I go? What purpose do I serve?" they ask themselves. Indeterminate beings never knowing themselves, always asking inconclusive questions after having placed their weighty eggs in a paper basket.

What a shame! Such good men thinking silhouettes of themselves. Chasing one desire after the next, but never feeling full. All the while thinking themselves wiser for it. Though deep within, a voice- a child's voice - their voice calls out. It knows life was meant for more than this - more than this rat race. The bitterness of rat's bane is a cup for all who run its race; the unwavering aftertaste of regret and disappointment.

Though tragic, there can be no exception to the mysterious course of nature. Ever sowing, ever reaping. No surprises here. Even tender, passionate children can become disillusioned rats; all flesh - given enough time and morose - sags.

All who are hungry, let them eat. All who are thirsty, let them drink. Chase not after things unfulfilling, but always after the fountain of life.