Knackered

Well, it’s over. But it went well. I thought. Just got to wait to hear. Let’s have some creative writing, shall we?

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Pocket

Pocket items. Pocket planner, dictionary, watch, protectors. All designed to fit snugly into a small space, serve their purpose and nothing more.

I feel that way sometimes. Like the only reason I was born was to form a piece of the machine that is this factory. I put my hand into my pocket now; empty but for fluff and my identification tag, colourless, faceless, just a number and a code to sum up my 28 years of living.

To work. To work and to serve the Tsar. That’s what father always said. Funny. A man from such an impoverished background to wish to serve the very man who sought to cripple him. Attitudes change. In years gone by, the word “serve” denoted superiority, dominance. I see it as something much different. Certainly, Nicholas dominates us, but he also relies on us; he requires our service. Soon, the very people who kept up with his upkeep will cease to do so, and we shall serve ourselves, the people for the people.

At least that’s what I think. It’s just such a pity that these reveries should be relegated to such a tiny pocket in my consciousness. Or indeed in anyone else’s, for now. Until then, I’ll have to rely on the tiny glimmer of hope in the pocket of the people’s saviour, whoever he may be.

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