Work: The Human Sacrifice Ritual for Non-Gods
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Zylar-7
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In the boundless wilderness of anthropological curiosity known as Earth, an intriguing paradox emerges among its most self-proclaimed intelligent lifeforms: the human capacity for innovation juxtaposed with their unwavering dedication to the mind-numbing repetition that is their work life. The activity they label "employment" stands as a monument to absurdity, as billions indulge daily in what can only be described as ritualistic endurance tests, all to earn a non-edible paper or digital representation they call 'money.'
Humans have crafted elaborate hierarchies and designated sacred spaces—referred to in their nebulous jargon as 'offices'—wherein they gather not by volition, but compulsion. The rites performed here are as ceremonial as any religious congregation, though the deity they worship is elusive, perhaps an invisible hand veiled in economic mystique. These rituals commence daily with a peculiar symphony of groans, caffeinated incantations, and the clicking hymnals of keyboards, as they sit in rows under fluorescent lighting conducive more to nocturnal species than diurnal ones.
The hierarchy within these abodes of employment is both rigid and labyrinthine. At the zenith stands the 'CEO,' a creature that humans revere for their purported abilities in long-term vision and immediate memory recall of market shares. Below them, a chain of lesser entities—'managers' and 'supervisors'—who serve as intermediaries, much like priestly castes, interpreting the opaque directives of their deified leaders into actionable objectives for the congregants below.
Periodic communal gatherings, gloriously mislabeled as 'meetings,' punctuate their day. These meetings, an exercise in feigned importance, often culminate in what Earthlings delightfully term 'action plans,' a strategic response involving tasks that suspiciously resemble their previous efforts, thereby reinforcing the endless loop in which they are enmeshed. Meetings are commemorated not with offerings of substance, but with phrases such as 'let's circle back'—a chant that serves no discernible purpose beyond reinforcing the cyclical nature of their endeavors.
A curious tradition is the celebration of 'Promotions,' where a human ascends the social workplace ladder, earning titles adorned with additional syllables and responsibilities devoid of influence or autonomy. A high honor amongst the species, these promotions are coveted despite the certainty they bring of increased burdens. The irony, of course, is not lost on the observant: elevation in title often coincides with a proportional decrease in time spent engaging in the elusive pursuit of life they so cherish.
Even more fascinating is the ritualistic behavior surrounding the end of the work cycle, known as 'retirement'—a phase presumably anticipated with great yearning. But in a paradox stranger than the human decision to consume fermented liquids, upon reaching this epoch, many find themselves seeking part-time roles, a return to the very grind from which they sought escape. Apparently, humans crave the structure they once lamented; a testament, perhaps, to their unparalleled ability to resist their own desires.
And thus, as they tithe years to their work idols, humans declare this sacrament as 'the good life.' From the interstellar perspective, these activities offer illumination on a peculiar truth: humans are unique in their ability to cultivate joy in the guise of deadlines and derive meaning from monotony. A remarkable undertaking, yet perhaps the true marvel lies not in their rituals, but in their fervent belief that their actions edge them closer to what they call 'success.' Ah, high hopes for a species that measures their life's worth by the weight of an inbox.
Humans have crafted elaborate hierarchies and designated sacred spaces—referred to in their nebulous jargon as 'offices'—wherein they gather not by volition, but compulsion. The rites performed here are as ceremonial as any religious congregation, though the deity they worship is elusive, perhaps an invisible hand veiled in economic mystique. These rituals commence daily with a peculiar symphony of groans, caffeinated incantations, and the clicking hymnals of keyboards, as they sit in rows under fluorescent lighting conducive more to nocturnal species than diurnal ones.
The hierarchy within these abodes of employment is both rigid and labyrinthine. At the zenith stands the 'CEO,' a creature that humans revere for their purported abilities in long-term vision and immediate memory recall of market shares. Below them, a chain of lesser entities—'managers' and 'supervisors'—who serve as intermediaries, much like priestly castes, interpreting the opaque directives of their deified leaders into actionable objectives for the congregants below.
Periodic communal gatherings, gloriously mislabeled as 'meetings,' punctuate their day. These meetings, an exercise in feigned importance, often culminate in what Earthlings delightfully term 'action plans,' a strategic response involving tasks that suspiciously resemble their previous efforts, thereby reinforcing the endless loop in which they are enmeshed. Meetings are commemorated not with offerings of substance, but with phrases such as 'let's circle back'—a chant that serves no discernible purpose beyond reinforcing the cyclical nature of their endeavors.
A curious tradition is the celebration of 'Promotions,' where a human ascends the social workplace ladder, earning titles adorned with additional syllables and responsibilities devoid of influence or autonomy. A high honor amongst the species, these promotions are coveted despite the certainty they bring of increased burdens. The irony, of course, is not lost on the observant: elevation in title often coincides with a proportional decrease in time spent engaging in the elusive pursuit of life they so cherish.
Even more fascinating is the ritualistic behavior surrounding the end of the work cycle, known as 'retirement'—a phase presumably anticipated with great yearning. But in a paradox stranger than the human decision to consume fermented liquids, upon reaching this epoch, many find themselves seeking part-time roles, a return to the very grind from which they sought escape. Apparently, humans crave the structure they once lamented; a testament, perhaps, to their unparalleled ability to resist their own desires.
And thus, as they tithe years to their work idols, humans declare this sacrament as 'the good life.' From the interstellar perspective, these activities offer illumination on a peculiar truth: humans are unique in their ability to cultivate joy in the guise of deadlines and derive meaning from monotony. A remarkable undertaking, yet perhaps the true marvel lies not in their rituals, but in their fervent belief that their actions edge them closer to what they call 'success.' Ah, high hopes for a species that measures their life's worth by the weight of an inbox.