The Art of Getting Bored

I WAKE UP usually at six, sometimes six thirty with sunshine rays greeting on my once rashed face from the east side of the second floor. The faster I get up will earn me a passport to bathe first and wouldn't rush to put on a pair of monotonous long sleeves and slacks. I will brush my hair delicately using the knuckles, more often without staring against my reflection in the mirror. I've done this a thousand times before and I'm pretty sure will be doing it a helluva lot more. Ties used to accompany these sleeves but I learned long ago of its inappropriateness with what I do.
Before stepping out of the house turned barracks, the one place I spent most of my sleeping hours, I would slip on my ageing shoes which I bought along with a schizo friend.
From there, the script I've been role playing a couple of years now shall begin with the waiting for the shuttle to pass. It will take me to a kilometer or two destination where a Pacquiao banner with a chicken leg right into his mouth flows along the wind. Pay 8 Jose Rizal coins to the stubborn driver. (It used to be only 6 but the invention that replaces gas with water has been deliberately ignored and buried into the unknown by more or less this too-busy-to-corrupt-money government.)
The waiting shall continue when I will board the company shuttle that ferries me daily directly to the office. It usually leave by 7:20. If I get unlucky, I will let the scorching sun fry me for longer the 10 minutes or more while wishing another of those buses with the letters STE emblazoned on its body, or friends in the office who happen to drive his or her own car, will run by and pick me up. In this manner, I will save sweat and hard earned cash to spend for overpriced tricycle fares.
After getting off the bus (or car maybe), the drama continues. This is one of the worst scenes of the play. Blue boys and girls will stand my way in when I'd get my white shoes. They'll swish their garrets in a sword slicing fashion to find out if I was carrying C4s and TNTs to aide me blow the building into nothingness. Once inside, I must wear the white shoes, safety shoes, kung fu shoes or whatever shoes that were not used in the outside premises. I'll walk past the hordes of females waiting for time to tick at 8 o'clock like a deathrow getting ready for mass execution.
The official hour my time will be paid commence at the same moment these pink wearing "inmates" enters the gas chamber-like factory. But before that occurs, I'll eat breakfast. I'm not even sure if they are worthy to be called breakfast. Ever since this drama begun, the same menu, the same food are being served. I got 5-10 minutes to finish eating, where I will head to the main opera house, the ultimate stage play.
An avalanche of characters will sprout in this opera house. Some are bosses, some are not. Some feel handsome, while others are dumb. Each of these characters plays its own unique role.
The day starts with the same stagnant purpose. I long felt the day when I feel elated about the sense of what I do. The excitement was no longer in sight. I guess if I ever tried remembering the passion is like how a blind man sees the centerfold of a Hustler magazine by braille.
There I sit quiet. Turn on the PC. Read messages. There are lots of problems again in the factory. But I feel tired. Nobody have scratch my willful portion of my brain since time immemorial, telling me, hey Jervis, it's a good day today. Isn't it wonderful if you finish this. You'll be able to tell the world how great you are. You're contribution is priceless mister, blah blah blah...
But my body is too weak. Too uncomfortable to even stretch a muscle of initiative. I used to be super in what I do. Just tell me the problem, and in minutes I'd be able to tell you the cause.
I was even able to forge plans and future improvements for my line. Unfortunately, they are buried under the stacks of papers I would throw in the garbage.
No recognition. No, nothing. Nincompoop MGRS who wouldn't even bother understand the essence of what we do.
How in the world would I get myself excited about everything this script tells about?
The day drags on. Loads of task from yesterday were unfinished and dust is already at a micrometer high.
A futile attempt to continue these recurring work just like how the sun rises every morning at the same spot in the sky will eventually fail. Until the first bell reverberate into the halls and across the tables and walls, signaling it's time to feed again. Same menus. Same kind of stale food. I've got less than 3 options.
One, eat what is served and practically chew it like a cow destined to munch all the grass in the field.
Two, shell out 6 pesos, go to the vendo and say, abrakadabra! A coffee in a recycled carton cup is methodically served.
And three, stay in front of the pc, nap or chat with the person on my right.
Phone calls, emails, and tons of papers that came out from a poor and less than mediocre printer. These things are the simple elements in these arena of existence where I communicate.
Machine breakdown, computer viruses, and the monotonous way of doing stuff. A little less challenging. No recognition. No budget. Only salary makes me move.
These things exist and happen over and over again. Until I realized an hour passed faster than the entire time it would take for a text message to be sent and received. Or even quicker than the quick brown fox who jumps over the sleeping lazy dog.
I would then realized, I already ate my lunch which by the way, may include left overs from the previous shifts or even grinded meat of unsold chicken tinola rolled into meatballs and priced at the same value.
I would also embraced the fact that by this time, the day has already neared its end. That the sun have travelled 90 percent of its path in the light blue canvass over my head. Dark is looming but the drama hasn't end.
For the nth time, I'll serve myself with the food cooked the same way, by the same cooks, in the same floor and tables cleaned by the same person managed by supervisors who only wears blue. No wonder why my cholesterol have skyrocketed and caused me splinters in the brain.
The last gong heared from the ceiling would only mean, it's time to quit the day. Go home dear jervis, and take a rest. You will be summoned tomorrow morning like a robot who does only what is instructed in their programmable silicon brain chips.
The end of the script doesn't end in a high note, nor in a mind boggling finish. It only involves boarding an outgoing airconditioned or oven bus. I will let my feet carry me further back to where I came from early in the morning-- slumber house.
The wall clock doesn't get exhausted circling its two hands around itself, but at this point, I am dead tired to do something significant other than rest, and sleep.
End of the script.

PS. The drama begins again at the sound of the celfone alarm customized the way how the second stanza of Eraserheads Tollgate is sang. For three freaking years, this script has been used, acted upon and played, but not written until this very day. Sometimes there's a twist inserted in the story lines. When this happens, its a matter of bliss enjoyment or painful regret.