When things get a little too weird for me, this phrase gets me in a good space: “reality is subjective.” If everyone observed the same reality equally except for me, then I’d be feeling pretty left out, you know, but it’s not! If you and I observed the same situation, we both have subjective filters. I wear glasses for vision impairment, which innocently changes my perspective of reality, but let’s dig into this deeper still.
No Smoking signs are a joke in Seattle. As I walked toward three people smoking at a No Smoking sign, I saw the one closest to the road blow smoke all over the sidewalk. Smokers like this infuriate me because they disrespectfully ruin public perception with negligent behavior, unaware of any pain they cause by forcing others from their sobrieties. Approaching fast, I kept my intense gaze burned on his eyes, walking closer, ever closer.
I thought of all the compromises I’d negotiate as I ran toward the bus I certainly was missing. I’d realized I’d forgotten my wallet too late into my bus stop journey. After retrieving it, I thought of stopping to send correspondences with my status and apologies. Maybe what stopped me was not wanting to so easily be conquered by trivialities? I arrived at the bus stop just moments before my bus, and with something more!
If “The Story” uses Seattle, Washington, as a primary location for inspiration gathering, how closely should its fictional metropolis, Eville, emulate Seattle? You have the International District, University District, Pike Place Market, Space Needle area, “Pill Hill,” Fremont, SoDo, and many more highly-individualized locations that are each just a little different than its neighbors. Though they probably won’t admire the architecture, I imagine John [center] and Trishna [right] will enjoy adventuring through their big city!
Spoilers?: Minor (world-building and scene-building) WANNA CONSIDER HOW REALITY CAN INFLUENCE ART? CLICK HERE TO KEEP ON READING!
“You’re strong for a girl!”
“You’re pretty for an old curmudgeon.”
Just like that, everyone around the final pallet of freight to be brought into the warehouse that sweltering Evillian afternoon burst into laughter, concluding with the now embarrassed curmudgeon and then Jane, who, soaking in the sensation, uncharacteristically smiled.
“Alright, that’s enough. Good work, everyone. Your end time is 6:15. Check the calendar to see your hours for tomorrow. Jane, hang tight for a minute.”
Why do we become addicted to our work? Why do we allow our work and employers to entrench themselves so deeply into our psyches that when we’re in the shower, we give effort to our work, we complain about work to family, and we work when we sleep? Does it fill that void otherwise filled with insecurities and self-loathing? Do we yearn for the stability that comes with employment and the fruits of our labor?