[“a worker is defined not only by the type of inner reverie that the machine obliges her to have,…” – Jean-Paul Sartre]
I loved that old machine, the one now broken and useless, parts tossed into a gurney. I knew its ways, how to make it do the work it must. It shaped the rhythm of my days by its slow humming, the soft thump when it finished the next thing it made and dropped it on the belt. To gain my admiration, I used to tell myself, the machine worked, knowing it was not so, that admiration counts for nothing. Its rhythm shaped my life.
But now there’s a new machine. I waited impatiently for it to be installed, to see what rhythm it would have, what rhythm I, in turn, would have for it. Faster, probably, than the old machine; abrupt, unpleasant. I told myself I was almost prepared for that.
But now the new machine is here, has begun operation – I’ve been told.
It doesn’t need me.
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