This job is carelessly wasting my life away, and draining me of my joy.
Hour after hour, mindlessly typing away on my keyboard with the intent to time travel and finish my shift already, but alas I am still here. I've seen this office cubicle for longer than what is good for me and yet I'm still here typing up reports and analytics that have no meaning to me whatsoever, bored out of my mind. There is no colour in this depressing workplace, just lousy shades of black and white, the very definition of misery, you can see on it the faces of workers in this melancholic building. I for one have become so deflated from these long hours I work I'm going to lose it. Maybe I have already. Every tap of the keyboard is snapping my sanity in and out of existence, the smell of freshly brewed coffee conjured into a filthy breath, bringing this silent and bland office to the very essence of hell. What's this? The vents, are they speaking to me? The air whirls around in the beast's lungs, and is released out of the mouth to make a pathetic little laugh, but its endurance lasts the whole day. By the time I am finished with all of my work, it is midnight. I can finally release my shackles and escape into midnight, free of the office until the coming day. Due to the economical difficulties of owning a vehicle in the modern jungle, I take the train home, though waiting for it is longer than the ride itself, and every time I combat the relentless cousin of death, sleep. This is my daily life, no family, I've never been given the time for, have either stopped visiting or have slowly corroded away from the ticking time bomb of death. This is my forever lifestyle, to torture myself into the obedience of the office all day everyday until I retire as an old man who has nothing left but his life savings.
I stand in the surprisingly crowded train cart as my stop is projected by the conductor through the speakers, and I begin to ready myself to start moving. Public transport always stinks. Literally. With the amount of people in and out of this cart, I doubt that cleaning it would remove the dirt from it. The walk home is, unlike the train ride, only a few paces luckily. Only a few turns and I'm home, my sweet old apartment. I live on the third floor of this, what would you call it, average apartment? There is nothing particularly special about it other than it is slightly better than imagined. Fetching my keys from my large pant pockets, the jangle of the many keys attached to their chain breaks the peace of the midnight silence. I open the door with a click and enter my home and lock the door. This is where I sleep, eat and get ready for work. Nothing else. I just don't have the time. Work keeps me busy, literally. My steps are soft and quiet on the carpet as I trot down the hall and into my bedroom. I try my best to get out of my office clothes and put something more comfortable on, a shirt and sweatpants will do. My bed is my only escape from this nightmare, where I can dream and most importantly, rest. My back stretches onto the bed, I snuggle up to the sheets and my whole body feels a sense of release, letting go of all tension and ready to fall into a deep slumber. But the sweet release of sleep never occurs so readily and swiftly, as I lie awake staring at the ceiling for several moments before clocking out for the day. This is it. My life.Â
I wake up in a cold sweat, which usually isn't the case, due to a nightmare. It's strange, really, I'm not the type of person who has nightmares, or at least remembers them. But this one felt real almost, i can even vividly remember the events, or I think. Let me tell you what it was.
I awaken to find myself back in the train, it's completely empty. Unusual. There is no smell, and sound, I can't tell if the train is moving and I feel incredibly cold. Scanning the area, I noticed an old man with a golden cane, he was shaking due to his age and looked as if a slight breeze could blow him away. The cane looked to be finished and polished with a golden outside, as there was no way it was made out of pure gold, no old man could possibly lift a pure gold cane. From what i could make of it, the handle was grooved to perfectly fit a hands grasp, detailed with small swirls and etchings that made it look all the more valuable. He stares at me. His face is sagging, full of wrinkles like a dried up lake, his mouth is barely visible due to his snow white beard and his eyes are as cloudy as, well, clouds. Suddenly, he stands up, his movements, despite being an old frail man, were swift and produced no noise. Ghostly, I thought. He began to approach me, without sound his steps were soft as if he were floating and merely imitating walking. Next thing I know, he is directly standing in front of me, still staring with his blinded eyes.
"Can I help you Sir?"
I wonder if he is lost. Both mentally and physically. I do not mean it in a harsh manner, but he is acting quite strange.
"Sir?"
Not a word comes from him. Perhaps I didn't notice before, but he is really close to me. Feeling pretty concerned, and a little frightened, I begin to tap my foot and twirl my fingers. His murky eyes stare between the atoms directly at me, and wheezing can be heard from his weak body, highlighting his age. Striking my nerves and putting me on edge, I spoke.
"Look, could you please-"
A knife. He just thrusted a knife into my stomach, but I feel no pain. I pushed the old man away from me and just as I imagined what a frail old man would do if shoved, he fell straight down. Out came the knife with him, and blood splatters on the ground. I recall the warmth of my blood staining my clothes and leaking through my wound nonstop, yet the pain was still absent. It was soothing in a way, compared to my chilling surroundings, the heated red liquid soothed my freezing body.
The elderly man lays flat on his back, unconscious from what I could tell, but still gripped his golden cane, which sent chills up and down my spine.
The further into the dream I attempt to recall the more foggy my memory becomes, the very last moment I can only vaguely remember are the old man's final words.
"More will come."
What does this mean? More will come? I gathered my thoughts to make sense of the words and their true meaning. Will I have more nightmares like this? The message is too unclear to make sense, and as it scrambles my brain I come to the conclusion that there was no message behind it, that it was another dream to forget. However this was not like any other dream I've had, like I said, it felt real, so real in fact that not only was waking up in the cold of my sweat a result, but the searing pain lingered ever so slightly once I had awakened. I lift my shirt to reveal nothing but skin and my belly button, no wound to be found from an old man's knife. Sitting in my bed, I turned my head towards my digital alarm clock to see that time had past 2 hours, meaning I still had a whole night of rest to accomplish. I hesitated, for a moment, because the knife was so real, hurting me to the point where I felt sick, but almost all of my symptoms had washed away, and my exhausted self desperately required more rest. I returned to lay on my comforting bed, too worn to stay awake, and fell asleep.
More was to come.
Surprisingly, the remaining night proved to be restful, as I awakened to the sound of the alarm, insisting that I will need to get ready for work. Time to repeat the draining cycle. Get up, go to work, work all day, go home and go to sleep. However, unbeknownst to me, today would be the day that my life changed. Today's weather was cloudy with a chance of rain, and an even smaller chance of thunder. The sky was indeed covered completely in dark grey clouds, almost ready to release their water. As I took my walking route to the train station, passing the crowd of other working citizens, I managed to catch a glimpse of a golden cane, an exact replica of the old man's cane in my nightmare. As the growing crowd fluctuated and moved, the cane escaped my sight amongst the sea of humans. The simple viewing of the cane created flashbacks of that ever so painful moment where the knife was thrusted into me, yet my curiosity beat it tenfold and the investigation for the golden cane was on. This proved to be a difficult task due to the unidentified owner of the cane, perhaps it really is the old man from my dreams out to kill me once again? I have to know. With the bustling city against my side, I stride through crowds and survey the area for an hour or so before eventually throwing in the towel. At this point, all the searching brought me to exhaustion and sweat. I turn my wrist to check my watch, revealing that I'm late for work, and if any later, fired. What on earth am I doing? Risking my stable career just to see a golden cane that coincidentally was in my dreams the night before? What a terrible joke. I catch my breath, and a wave of anxiety floods my mind. There is no way I'm going to stay employed, the company I worked for is very strict. I can feel my heart pumping through my chest, pumping blood vigorously through my body, I feel sick and the busy street where I reside is in no way helping. Seeking shelter, I found a convenience store and scurried away into its restroom. The thoughts of work plagued my mind, further adding pressure to my anxiety, I've become a nervous wreck. I turn the tap on the sink to let the water run, as I cup my hands to wash my sweaty and clammy face, which calmed me down a bit. During moments like these, it helps to avoid tunnel vision and carelessly overthinking. I take some breaths and convince myself that there will be another job for me, it's a big world out there after all. I stare at myself in the mirror, My clothes dirty and untidy, my face exhausted of all emotion. What's this? I've never noticed how tired I look, as seen from my 9 o'clock shadow and the dark rings around my eyes. My tie lay loosely around my neck and my jacket is unbuttoned to reveal my sweat stained shirt.Â
A sense of catharsis entered my body as I began to relax, walking out of the bathroom and buying a pack of cigarettes and a lighter at the front counter. I exit through the sliding doors of the convenience store and flick the lighter until a small, warm, orange light shines as a cigarette gets lit and immediately starts to eject smoke. As I take my first puff, thunder can be heard rolling in the sky, and droplets of rain have begun to drop. Better go home and figure out what's next. A feeling of relief is what I feel on my walk back home, despite my appearance and the rain, a weight has been lifted off my chest. Nothing else bothered me now, the best I've felt in a whole while, ever since I began working at the office. Even stepping through the wet puddles that soaked my shoes and socks in cold water didn't bother me, instead I thought to myself, how wonderful the sound and the smell of rain is. How a simple cloudy, rainy day can change your entire perspective on the buildings around you. The pitter patter of rain makes the city sound so alive and thriving than the usual motorised sounds of cars zooming past on the road. It truly is a moment where I feel most present. Doing what I did, searching for something that was in my dream, was not the smartest thing. But it made me realise how my work habit was leeching the life out of me. Thanks to that, I'm unbound by my job and can see more clearly of the things around me. With almost a skip in my step, I continue to head towards my destination, leaving a trail of smoke behind. When i get home, just like any other man who has been fired from their job, I will celebrate with some drinks and appreciate life for what it is.