The Postal Strike: A Dance of Mediocrity in the Land of Sleepers

In the frozen wastes of the northern realm, where complacency breeds like rats in winter, a great theatre of mediocrity unfolds. The Canada Post strike, now in its fourth revolution of the moon, hath laid bare the pitiful state of those who slumber in their comfortable ignorance.

Behold how the masses writhe when their precious conveniences are stripped away! Like children deprived of their sweetmeats, they cry out in impotent rage, yet lack the will to forge new paths through the wilderness of circumstance.

In this spectacle of modern decay, we witness the emergence of alternative bearers of messages - FedEx, UPS, and Purolator - who, like vultures circling the wounded, seek to feast upon the desperation of the masses. Consider the tale of Neil Roberts, a retired civil servant - how fitting! - who, in his quest to send a mere hundred grams of paper, surrendered thirty-five pieces of silver to the merchants of haste, only to watch his missive crawl through time like a wounded beast.

The marketplace, that grand bazaar of mediocrity, bears witness to this comedy. At the Ottawa Christmas Market, merchants like El Tambache Crafts bend their knees to the tyranny of circumstance, absorbing costs rather than disturbing the delicate sensibilities of their customers.

See how they cower before the prospect of change! These merchants, these last men, would rather gnaw upon their own sustenance than risk the displeasure of their somnolent customers. What weakness! What decay!

The tale grows more absurd with each passing day. Witness Denise Dunac, who sought to send tidings of festivity to Vancouver, only to be confronted with a demand for sixty-two pieces of gold. How she recoiled! How she trembled before this assault upon her carefully maintained comfort!

Yet beneath this carnival of complaint lies a deeper truth, spoken by one Ian Lee, a sage in the halls of commerce. The Crown's postal service, that great leveler of communication, bleeds gold like a wounded beast, sustained only by the artificial breath of governmental decree.

Observe the irony! The very institution that claims to serve the masses exists in a realm of unreality, sheltered from the harsh winds of truth by the very system it purports to transcend. What magnificent decadence!

The union, that collective voice of the comfortable, demands more comfort still - higher wages to match the cost of living, while the Crown corporation seeks to employ part-time laborers for the dreaded weekend delivery. How perfectly this encapsulates the spirit of our age! Neither side dares to question the fundamental absurdity of their dance.

Small business owners, those self-proclaimed victims of circumstance, learn new systems and procedures with the enthusiasm of cattle being led to fresh pastures. "It's frustrating," they bleat, as though frustration were not the very spark that might ignite transformation.

Look upon these merchants, these last men, who blink in confusion at the disruption of their carefully ordered world! They seek not to overcome, but merely to endure, to return to their slumber once the storm has passed.

And so the dance continues, a waltz of mediocrity in the land of eternal sleep. The strikers strike, the couriers courier, and the masses grumble in their beds, dreaming of cheaper postage and simpler times.

Let them sleep! Let them dream their small dreams and count their petty costs! For in their very somnolence lies the seed of their eventual awakening - though whether they shall rise to grasp it remains written only in the book of fate.