Just until the next morning

There's a life outside, I know that there is. I remember that when I hear the accelerated rhythms of the speakers that get energetic at the end of the day on the other side of the wall, in preparation for the religious ceremony. Those who know it say that they don't like people watching, but it wouldn't be just for watching that I would like to go outside. And yet I continue as advised the path that is not naturally mine towards the guest house where I'll have dinner after thirteen hours of work, without ever leaving the factory, without risking having a life.

I sit at the table and I look at the faces around me, them also anxious for other places, but that don't seem to hear the noise from outside, or at least don't seem to be disturbed by it. Around the long table tepid conversations cross each other, with words being dragged around efficiencies, the new machines, the old operative procedures. The fatigue eliminates my patience to stand more of what I've been doing all day long, and after the fantastic pineapple that Duba, our cook, prepares for us every night, I abandon the table. I try to sit for a while in the living room, but I'm kept away by the screaming of another reality show that someone insists on watching.

I go back to my room, just to surrender myself to bed. I still manage to peep through a badly closed eye into the anthology of Portuguese poetry, but by this time there's no soul left to receive it.

In the morning I walk the ten minutes path between the guest house and the factory. It's during these minutes that I feel that another day has gone by without real life. Those are the minutes during which all the weight of my frustration falls over the expression wrinkles of my face, and it's almost when reaching the office door that the question is formulated: "what am I doing here?". But once the door of the office is crossed, the stress from efficiencies, the new machines and the old operative procedures makes me forget to look for the answer until the next morning.