What have I got to complain about?
I have a roof over my head,
Food on my table,
Change in my pocket,
A man who loves me,
And three wonderful children.
My life is perfect.

“Carriage seven of eight…”
Next station: Somewhere Else.
Even the Borg Lady in all her
Computerised wisdom knows
That this journey is reaching completion,
That I will depart at the penultimate stop,
Taking with me only that which I came with.
“Please do not leave your baggage unattended…”
Nobody wants to deal with potentially explosive baggage.
Nobody wants to be delayed or harmed by your carelessness,
Or your efforts to remain composed,
And aware of the rules upon rules,
Conditions upon damnable conditions,
That numb the brain and slacken the responses.
Be alert! “Report any suspicious items…”
I can’t, can’t you see?
I have been broken by your rules,
Your selfish regulations that dictate
The shape and nature of my path,
Forced into a rigid grin, braced by tracks vying to perfect and correct,
And inform others of my highly polished,
Gleaming white integrity.

“Mobile communications must be kept to a minimum”,
Interesting turn of phrase when we are all
In motion, trying to keep ourselves to ourselves
As the Borg Lady suggests we ought to.
Like particles randomly dancing in a fit of Brownian Motion,
Clashes will happen, collisions occur,
Interactions necessary.
Exchanging of baggage inevitable,
Sharing of bodily expulsions obligatory,
Desired yet abhorrent,
The margins invisible,
Mutable and vague.
Carnal deviancy sanitised by self-imposed order.
Physical closeness tempered by emotional distance.

But what have I got to complain about, really?
‘Keep your feet off the seats’ says the sign.
‘Give priority to those who need it…’
More than you, more than me, you mean?
Be noble and selfless, despite the army of feet
That have been wiped upon my seats on an endless train journey
A thousand carriages long,
Over countless miles scored deep into the earth,
With nothing but the blurring of existence,
To stimulate your senses,
As time and space is swallowed whole,
By an unseen fossilised maw.

“Get your feet off my seat.
Stop telling me where to get off,
Don’t tell me how or where I should sit.”
That’s what I feel like telling the Borg Lady,
But she, like my life, is infallibly perfect.
She will never complain because she is
Programmed that way.
The assimilation happened at birth;
And at the final stretch of my journey,
I see the map of my own life,
With its colourful but rigid lines,
Intersecting and conflicting across
The sprawl of my own urban, mundane landscape,
Scarified and stained with the fingerprints of a passing himanity.
Defined and signed by the unmistakable hand of assimilated,
Mechanical, objectified insanity.

“I, One of One am not Borg…”

As I reach my stop,
I glance back at my seat,
My resting place on the journey behind me,
Catching a glimpse of my future.
And I see nothing.
I have all I need.
I did what I was told,
And my life is perfect.

6 thoughts on “Borg Lady

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