At my desk, when I look up and beyond the bland confines of my cubicle, I see faces. Few familiar and plenty recognizable but none reassuring. I asked her with a seeming innocence which was only the counterpart of my inner agony. Why do people do what they do, regardless of liking it or not? Isn't one-third of life miserably long to keep doing things you wouldn't have done if you did not have to?
This is getting unbearable by day. An email whose constituents notify me of a new assignment is an email whose arrival I wish to avert but feel dreadful on its invariable arrival. I want to tell stories, write them to be right. Unfortunately, I am not yet equipped enough to write, yet I already feel beaten down by the rosy life of corporate and its ugly innards. It's like wanting to get down from a truck that's given you a ride, but you keep hoping a car would pay heed to your thumb stuck out, you get down looking at a car from a distance; the truck goes by and the car too rushes past you, leaving you with no means to go about your journey. I may hate to admit that having no means discomfits me in a materialistic sense. Perhaps that brings me to this desk, day after day.
Fuck wanting to be a novelist and my efforts. If not that, I'd be happy being a column writer in a daily. It all boils down to this: as I write this, time loses its spell on me. It does not seem unendurable.
This is getting unbearable by day. An email whose constituents notify me of a new assignment is an email whose arrival I wish to avert but feel dreadful on its invariable arrival. I want to tell stories, write them to be right. Unfortunately, I am not yet equipped enough to write, yet I already feel beaten down by the rosy life of corporate and its ugly innards. It's like wanting to get down from a truck that's given you a ride, but you keep hoping a car would pay heed to your thumb stuck out, you get down looking at a car from a distance; the truck goes by and the car too rushes past you, leaving you with no means to go about your journey. I may hate to admit that having no means discomfits me in a materialistic sense. Perhaps that brings me to this desk, day after day.
Fuck wanting to be a novelist and my efforts. If not that, I'd be happy being a column writer in a daily. It all boils down to this: as I write this, time loses its spell on me. It does not seem unendurable.
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