Money is Honey
Each day blends into the next; a never-ending cycle of deadlines and quiet resignation to the system when survival means two steps away from one’s purpose. What are dreams if not a fool’s currency when a paycheck is what keeps a roof over our heads. So we work, a slow erosion of the soul the corporate machine demands us to pay—and we bear its costs for the sake of a little more warmth in our guts.
The stage is set: a monotonous drone of CPUs humming in a monochromatic office, a single light directly illuminating a monomaniacal Aia typing in a frenzy; the clicking and clacking blending in sync with the rest of her co-workers like a massive, synchronized monolith encompassing the entire floor. Papers scattered frantically on her desk, she hunches over while nose-to-nose with her monitor—the continuous ticking of the clock faintly motivating her to push through the fatigue and irritation.
Each morning is the ritualistic thud of her alarm, and each night ends with the hiss of her half-hearted sigh. She exists, not with purpose, but for survival. Still, she moves—not for fulfillment, but for fear of what will happen if she just stops.
The cold fluorescent light in their office reveals sterile cubicles stretching endlessly, like a hive maze with no end in sight. Aia looks up at the calendar on the wall that reads “December.”
BIR Deadline at five. Meeting at two. I need to pass that report on Friday. Did I check my email yet? I should check and reply—she abruptly stops typing, rubbing her temples.
It’s funny, isn’t it?, she mutters to herself, an acquired coping mechanism for as long as she has been an accounting clerk, where everybody is too busy to care or listen.
The things we do to survive: work, consume, obey. They say, “If you hate it so much, just quit.” But then what? Follow my dreams? Ha! Dreams don’t pay rent.
As if searching for ghosts, she pauses to look at her hands, staring at the spot on her fingers where thick, round calluses once formed from writing castles in pages. Now, she only gets the occasional paper cut from financial statements. Progress, they call it.
The telephone on her desk rings, a jarring sound in the thick silence. She flinches momentarily before answering with the corporate professionalism embedded in her being.
“Yes, this is Aia,” she answers, her tone laced with a rehearsed indifference.
“Did you receive the report from last quarter?”, the familiar dismissive voice asks. Her AR Manager knows better than to fake pleasantries with someone they have worked side by side with three years ago.
“I’m working on it.”
“You’re late.” A sting on Aia’s chest. She breathes as steadily as she can.
“I know.”
“Then you know we cannot afford late. Make sure to pass that today.”
The line goes dead, almost at the same time Aia feels her heart drop dead to her guts. She stares at the landline, as if waiting for it to ruin her again, then laughs a little too loudly for her liking.
Of course, it’s late. Everything is.
In an attempt to regain her composure, Aia stands, paying no mind to the screeching echo of her chair against the floor. She walks to the window in the break room—a small, dirty corner left unattended—but sunlight leaks through stubbornly. She places her hand against the glass, hesitating, testing the warmth from outside she has not felt in some time.
She twists her head to the left, looking toward a nonexistent audience, imagining herself as the main stage’s laughingstock. A cruel, dissonant mockery vibrates against her temples. She stiffens, even though she knows the images are not real, but oh, the feeling is very much real for her. While Aia feels like a washed-up robot, she knows she is just a microspeck, forced to grind and turn to make the big, fat corporate machine work into motion. She is but a tool—gears grinding against her spirit, day after day. The same motions, the same exhaustion.
Aia feels her ribcage sink into her dried-out heart, as if the remaining life force in her has been sucked out of it. She breathes—or so she tries. In and out. Deep and long. A faux sense of control amongst the things she couldn’t—a needle in a haystack. Her phone rings, pulling her out of her descent into hell, reminding her of the personal one she is already living in.
Like the worker bee she is, Aia glues herself back to her monitor, feeling the weight of her family’s credit burden on her shoulders. She must work; her honey is money, and her hive is a corporate cage.
Originally published in Heraldo Filipino Volume 39, Issue 1
Art slider by Natasha Audrey Ordinario
Layout by Angienette Laurza
