(A sample voice I was thinking about during lunch today)
I'm bored. I'm sitting in my office that barely escapes the classification of a cubicle and I'm watching movie trailers on my computer. I should be doing my work, calling strangers, repeating a script over and over again but I just don't have the energy to be mindless, or I have too much energy to be mindless. Either way, I'm dodging the things I should be doing. There are laminated maps of the country and individual states on the walls but otherwise everything is bland white and Ikea wood. The only place that I can go now is my imagination.
Sometimes I wonder if I'm turning into a junkie, travelling ever inwards inside myself, turning away from the things that sustain my life: my job, my friends, my family. I am distant from my own world right now because I am adrift in my own imagination. I find the landscape there more beautiful and more terrifying than the day to day monotony I am living right now. There is more potential for danger there, thus, more chance for heroism, adventure, and courage.
Here, I am non-threatening, amiable, even cheerful. But there are depths within me that are uncharted by another, even by myself. There are shadowy places within me where I dare not look lest I be tainted by the shadow, brought into its service and inadvertently destroy the beautiful things in my life. I am a killer. No one suspects me because I have not killed but I do exist inside this flaccid form. Behind these eyes, glassed over and reflecting the infinite tedium of my days, there is something dangerous inside of me that wants to break out. I can't promise that I can contain it forever but I do promise to try.
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