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A Day on the Workplace

by Matteo M.F. Sommaruga

I wake up at 6 o'clock. I have not already left the habit to reserve the most precious hour of the day, before getting ready to go to work, to my favourite activities. Reading a book, newspapers, sometimes also playing the piano. With an headset, to respect the right of my neighbour to disdain my performance. It's the way to preserve my personal integrity against a system that has so far tried to drain my individual initiative with any available trick. I am not living that horrible utopia anymore, but it has cut my soul so deep that it is hard to drop my old habits.

I am master of my own time here, even if chained to a permanent contract. That kind of security that I still despise, but I cannot afford to avoid, because it is required by the capitalist land I have moved to. No credit card, no apartment available for rent, unless you don't show the evidence of some financial stability. Having being dispossessed of everything, by the regime on the other side of the Alps, I have no other possession than a contract that links me, as a common employee, to the loyalty of the company I am serving.

No far from a peasant in the feudal system, I have bartered freedom for a warm shelter and a loaf of hot bread. In the modern and efficient free market economy, I am saving enough to be able to enjoy hobbies and a decent amount of time. That's not so bad, I could easily survive. Just to pay attention not to be lured by the too tangible advantages of a quiet life without any further ambition. Loyalty to the fiefdom, and to my warlord are essential, but I fully doubt of myself. I am much more prone to the rejected role of a ronin, a masterless samurai. Or a freelancer. But the time is not already ripe and I have got to refuse the sweet pleasure of a marshmallow if I want to taste a piece of a luxurious cake.

I take the tube, the bus, travel with the mass transits made available by the municipalities. A self sustaining network that does not ignore the rules of nature. It is carefully regulated to obtain the right balance between a minimized waiting time, an 24/7 service, the amount of paying passengers, price of the tickets, maintenance and operating cost. Not everybody accept it. Most believe that they are wasting too much time outside the wagons, during cold winter nights and warm summer evenings. Time is money, they cannot save time, i.e. money, unless they are not disposed to pay for that. As usual any money counts, and both sides are contending for the most convenient solution.

I enter the office, the company is not saving money on me. I am regarded as a professional, the working class does not exist anymore. It has expired long time ago, with the fall of the Berlin Wall. Valuable paintings are hanging from the walls. Nobody protests private handling and trading of human creations. They are a valuable solution where to convey the enormous profits of local companies. Socialists would never understand, although they claim such an analytical genius when history is concerned, that market and money are the true requirements for artists to thrive. As well for scientists and any intellectual mind. Also for the eremites in the desert. The so well reknown byzantine monastic tradition would have never existed without the corrupted luxuries of the Constantines' court.

I quit the office, at the established time. A clear contract has been signed between me and my liege. I am paid for a defined amount of time, and every second of my life it is just mine, unless I am not properly paid for. As well I have not stolen him an instant, among those he has retributed me. Private property is well respected.

social social social print

On the other side of Berlin Wall

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