The human atrium

I work in a building in the Adelaide CBD, about nine storeys up. I have a nice view to the west, which shows a vast panorama of the glass building next door.

There are days where I feel a little trapped. This feeling isn’t helped by the Venetian blinds which create a gaol-bar-like effect.

About half an hour ago, this feeling came to a head, almost to the point where I cracked and started flinging crap around, like a caged animal.

A couple little birds, spoggies as they’re known here, flew up and landed on my window’s shelf.

One of them just stood there and looked in the window… staring at me. The bird’s partner hopped up and down the shelf, periodically staring into my cubicle.

I felt their eyes on me, like they were just waiting to see what I would do next.

Then they both continued to hop around the shelf, taking in the sight of my cluttered workspace, my hunched figure over the keyboard and the dim glow of the machine’s eye.

Then they chirped to themselves. I could only just hear them through the glass.

It was like they were laughing at me. How pathetic it was that this monstrous animal was reduced to a cramped space, surrounded by stacks of paper, his bleary eyes testament to the futility of it all.

Then, somewhat teasingly, they flew off. Free.

I have suddenly developed an odd hatred of zoos.