The Chronicles of Mr. X
"What is a Worker if not a Hero to every Society?"
Society is People.
The Invisible Streets of Sync-Chron-City are about to be filled with throngs of anonymous Workers & Commuters. They will be paper-thin, mere Symbols, and stacked perfectly like so many $100 dollar bills, many hundreds of $1 bills, each counted One-by-One as they pass along under and over Green & Yellow lines, walking shoulder to shoulder and corner to corner and lining pockets up and out and back over again in perfect sequential numerical order. "Much easier to copy that way... To count that way... the county tax, the municipal tax, the federal and state. That-away!"
A Union of Cards have gone rebel and R(e)Volt against the Game. The King and Queen and the others are not just numbers 2-3-4 anymore. Now they are real People with feelings, relations, emotions, and lives to live.
"I want to live..."
Perfect lines of orderly workers will soon march along the streets. Paved and painting everything red and black on their way home, walking and talking and passing along on brick roads stacked with row houses that stretch far out, far down, and far below the flowing river of elevated and hovering glaciers, mountains, a gigantic organic mechanic titanic sea of floating bee-hive tenement, sediment, and cement housing buildings. “Things hungrier than me…” They will even form a sort of house of cards in the streets, Castle of Pawns, took your rook, ship your bishop, huffing puffing shuffling and singing on their happy way to work...
"March on!" “Paint on!”
Meanwhile the Brains in the behind of Corporated, Inc. are attempting to convert all numbers into randomized serialized synchronized and patronized Chaos – settled bricks of dust now cut into the fractions and measures of an orderly Game - Lost to the movements and shakes of an opaque illusory mixing cake... One economy... One bar code at a time.
"One job at a Time."
People are Society. For these workers, getting to their job is the most important thing in their existence; and everyday life is a complete gamble. Thousands of large residential structures float above these streets, and no one really knows how the workers can get back to them once they've reached the grounds at the bottom of the Can. The workers in this city are always doing something and they never stop. A remaining few philosophers believe that the workers once had wings, and that anyone could fly. Flying past each curve in the glass... Everyone a grain in the Sand... Hour glass of Time. One dream at a time...
"I want to dream."
But these workers don't understand one thing: wanting more means you only have less. Now, flying is too expensive to afford, and workers are forever grounded, mostly to their beliefs and predetermined purpose. No one has taken a flight in generations and wings like most technology have become the property of holding company, Obsolete.
The historical evidence suggests that the workers no longer have wings because they do not need... "Why do they need to reach their floating houses if they never need to go home?" "...because they never sleep." The symbiotic relationship between environment and organic form has completely collapsed.
Wall St. & Main St. are the sole survivors, and we know how that relationship ended...
It was all just a matter of Choice, an option now considered only an illusion largely out-marketed over-worked under-priced out-smarted and insider-traded by supreme rival Incorporated, Inc.
"CHOICE, INC.!" "It is there any time you want it!"
Mr. Y could be the soul exception to that possibility because he has no need for wings, no need for things, and he never really had any real choice. He spends most of his time sleeping and dreaming, and he lives in the only building in SCC that still reaches the ground; his own terra-firma. If he could choose, he would never remember his TRUE purpose or why he wakes up every day to go to work. But choosing a different existence does not make it so. Mr. Y only rents from the Corporation while serving the needs of Incorporated. And, he cannot work if he does not Remember.
“WE ARE HERE ANY TIME YOU NEED US.”
Today, we also need to focus our attentions on one of the other anonymous workers in the streets, in particular. It resembles a pedestrian sign or a symbol for the Men's restroom, for the Women's bathroom. It has no face and there is no distinct shape to its body besides a few bold lines for arms and legs and a round circle for a face. It resembles all the other workers of the world exactly because they all resemble each other.
Anonymous serves its true purpose, quietly and professionally, and most importantly, anonymously. It collects no salary and asks no questions. It is not distracted by anything, never. A is a true work of Art. Mr. A would often say hello to his wife, Mrs. A, whenever People would swing the door to the restroom Open & Closed.
The Time read out on a falling Alarm Clock is now 0:03/00:00. It crashes violently on the hard pavement and splits open like a rotten piece of fruit right before A's feet.
AC felt no pain as its calculating soul escapes from the robotic prison of its clockwork body. On the contrary, a calculator only discovers its true purpose not when it begins to multiply or divide for the first time, but rather when it is presented with a problem it cannot solve. If the keys on a calculator do not allow for that possibility, then hook it up to a typewriter and call it a computer. But in the end it is just a calculating device given meaning only by better, smarter machines.
Instantly, the anonymous worker pauses the commute for just a moment and stoops to examine the broken alarm clock at its feet. Its body bends like soft cardboard. No one else stops to notice this disaster, for now, except A. The other Workers proceed onwards with their commute to Nowhere. Yet this one anonymous worker is completely puzzled, not so much by what it sees, but by what it thinks and by what it feels.
Millennia of philosophical debate will occupy A, from that point on, just for the fact that it cannot answer one question. "Why did I stop walking and commuting to work? Why, if anything, did I stop working?" These questions will eventually boil down to "Why did I stop?" intermixed with "Why didn't I stop?"
Eventually, A will become solely obsessed with one single question. It was, in fact, the first time A ever thought of a question. It was a true "breakthrough" in its existence.
Hours later, A will sit down at the desk, the brownish color of a paper body matching the brownish color of a cardboard writing desk. The fresh smell of black magic marker and red pens will fill the empty cardboard boxes of blue ink and grey cubicles that are filled with other anonymous workers that smell of colored crayons, pencils, and rubber erasers. Their faces smile gently, and they are content with their position in Life. What was so important about that image projected into A's mind? What was seen rising from that broken and smashed Robot? Was some small light extinguished? What was the source of that light, and what is its meaning? It was never inherent in A's existence to own a thought or to question perception.
So, instead of pausing for much longer to contemplate these new questions now, A examines closely the fading and flashing 00:03/00:00 read out on the destroyed and smashed alarm clock display... A examines a wrist-watch, used to tell Time. The read out on A's time keeping device is also 0:04/00:00. Everything is in order, and so as A continues on, the Time is now 00:05/00:01.