At Least I Still Dream

by Paul Condrey

I've been sitting here at my cubicle for so long that the eights and sixes on my page have begun to blend into one entity for my poor eyes to pour over and mark down as second nature instead of process. It is easy for me to just drift away into the dark spaces of my mind on rainy work days like today with my cubicle pressed into the far corner of the office next to the window so that I can see the drops of rain, some careening to the ground a hundred feet below while some meet the end of their journey here on this pane of glass that separates me from the fresh air that I'm sure still exists far above the loveless, rat fuck city so far down there. I dream of wild fantasies on this sort of morose, dreary day. I close my eyes tight as I can so that I'm sure none that negative light can invade and subsequently infect my brain with the reality that is my life as a nine to fiver at an office, working for a fat man with terrible halitosis who tells the same shitty jokes that everyone has already heard and could give a shit less about my morale as a member of this company. My dream today begins slowly but quickly develops as I visualize one million ants marching their tiny legs through the sliding glass doors of my office building, right onto the elevator – I'm almost sure that they could all fit in one or two trips depending on how they're stacked. I'm confident that these creatures would have acted as my tiny savior and lifted me onto their tiny exoskeletons to carry me out into the wild world of freedom that I only remember as a dream these days if it weren't for the awful, almost sickening voice of my boss who had just leaned his bulbous upper body into my little sanctuary, saying to me, "Ok, stop me if you've heard this one..."


Paul Condrey, author of again, was having a good chat with his cat when she gave him the idea for these six sentences.