7 posts tagged with "Social Allegory"

The people of this city believe in an unquestionable truth: nine o'clock at night is the boundary dividing states of being. To cross it, entering slumber, is akin to activating an invisible machine, infusing life with order, efficiency, and an indescribable 'correctness'. On street propaganda posters, citizens with serene sleeping faces are bathed in soft moonlight, set against a background of gears and wheat sheaves symbolizing abundance and health. The caption is concise and powerful: "Early Bedtime: The Cheat Code to Perfection."

The first time K. distinctly felt something was wrong was on what should have been a Friday afternoon. Sunlight slanted through the blinds, casting long, tired patches of light on the floor. The air was thick with the false sense of ease that heralded the coming weekend. However, when he habitually glanced at the wall calendar, he found the mark next to the date wasn't pointing to a day off, but rather a symbol he had never seen before – scrawled, yet possessing a certain official authority. It resembled a distorted character for 'work', tightly enclosed in a circle. He rubbed his eyes, but the symbol stubbornly remained.

"Isn't... isn't today Friday?" he muttered, his voice barely audible, as if afraid of disturbing something.

When Wang Ming first heard the news about the "Sanbengzi shortage," he paid it no mind. It was just a simply constructed, even somewhat clumsy three-wheeled motorcycle, seemingly out of place in the vast, efficient, future-bound city he inhabited. However, within days, the news spread like a silent plague. First, it was neighbors whispering in the hallway, then colleagues exchanging anxious glances in the office pantry, and finally, even the old man selling savory crepes on the street corner added worriedly while making change, "Heard they're going crazy for them over in America, probably means we'll run out here too."

K received the notice on a Tuesday morning. It wasn't handed to him directly but was, as usual, tucked amidst the endless pile of documents on his desk, as if it inherently belonged there. A thin sheet of paper, the printing slightly blurred, exuding the smell of cheap ink and some indefinable official odor. K was an ordinary customs calculation clerk in the Tax Building, responsible for processing import duties for goods from specific regions. He had held this job for many years, long accustomed to the monotony of numbers and the tediousness of regulations, precise as clockwork, and just as devoid of life.

Taishan and the Cat

I began accompanying people climbing Mount Tai on a foggy morning. To be precise, it wasn't "accompanying," it was "being accompanied." I stood at the exit of the Nantianmen cable car station, like a forgotten piece of luggage, waiting for the next lonely soul.

Li Ming awoke from a state of chaos and habitually glanced at the digital clock on his nightstand: 7:00. Outside the window, it was dim and gray, as if covered by a perpetually dirty rag. His building was always like this, shrouded in perpetual gloom.

I awaken to find myself in a vast labyrinth made of numbers. The walls shimmer with a cold fluorescence, constantly scrolling with various data: GDP, CPI, PMI… All of it revolves around a core number: 5%.

"5%," a voice echoes in my ear, low and mechanical, "This is the growth target for this year. You must find the path to 5%."