eyes wa eyes I
’m an unremarkable person. I run on a routine which, after five years of college graduation, comes to me as something automatic. I wake up at six every day and my alarm clock has yet to fail. I eat my breakfast then I prepare for my day. I ride the train, getting on and off the same two stations. I work in my cubicle with the same blue walls until it’s time to go home. I hang out with my co-workers after work hours sometimes. I’ve been running on autopilot in the past five years. There’s nothing to see. Despite that, the eyes are still watching. Sometimes, they are easy to miss – the miniscule lenses embedded on the walls and the small microphones wedged in the cracks and holes, but most of the time, they are out for everyone to see. When I walk in the streets, I’d see children playing with the surveillance camera at the entrance of a convenience store, giggling as they ran back and forth while watching the lenses follow their movement. Sometimes the eyes are actual eyes, pretending to be someone in the background. The details are kind of hazy in my memories, but I know, the eyes are here because of the rise in activity of underground subversive groups that aims to topple the government. Any sign of unrest is detrimental to peace and should be put out before it can grow into flames. I don’t really mind the eyes watching me. There’s nothing to be afraid of if there’s nothing to see.
26
In the past three years, there has been an addition to the routine, in the name of HC, my co-worker who sits three cubicles away from me. We’ve formed a sort of an odd friendship. HC would come to my cubicle during lunch break to talk my ear off about whatever topic that tickles his fancy. I never really gave him a sign of interest, but he didn’t take my indifference as a sign of unwelcome. “Yo, MK, what do you have for lunch?” I see HC from my peripheral vision, dragging his computer chair to my cubicle and holding a sandwich with the other hand. I put my computer on sleep and rolled my chair around to face him as he plops down his seat, “I’m getting tired of eating sandwiches, but I can’t for the life of me get up early to prepare an actual meal.” I’ve found that HC doesn’t mind if I don’t respond, so I turn around to face my desk and grab my backpack to take my packed lunch out. HC peeks over my shoulder, “It’s buttered broccoli today, huh?” I nod in reply and take my first bite. “Have you heard about that rebel that got caught last night?” HC asks. I tilt my head towards him, hoping that my expression conveyed my answer. No. HC eyes me with interest. “JS,
scientia vol 27 no 1
