Open Office
It's here again. The whirling, rolling, deafening longing for that which is beyond my reach. And yet, at the same time, a listless ennui permeates the desire, as if dulling it or stretching it out, not unlike dough under a rolling pin. Itās been months, and the passing of time brings little change. At first, little bolts of excitement as repeated moments of acceptance appeared, only to be followed by round after round of rejection by soulless behemoths that have already forgotten my name. I find myself attempting, albeit poorly, to lose myself in my work in order to avoid thinking about my current predicament. Itās an incredible waste of time, and yet, even as I am acutely aware of this fact, I attempt to bury myself deeper and deeper into the meaningless problems of a company who cares no more for my well-being than that of the stuffy houseplant that shares the large open office floor where I clickity-clack away.
It's lunch-time, where do we want to go, my coworker asks. Not the asian place, another coworker responds, we went there yesterday. We settle on salad outwardly pretending that we are all quite content with this choice, while internally wishing we could skip off to mcdonalds and breathlessly eat two big macs. We manage to discuss the intricacies of iceberg lettuce for about ten minutes before coming back to the old reliable small-talk subject of weather. Itās not raining enough, says somebody. Well I like the sun, says another. We finish our overpriced and undersized piles of greenery and head back to our office. I grab an espresso capsule and shove it into the machine and press a button. The machine gurgles and roils in protest, spewing chemically espresso-sludge into my cup.
I stare out the window as the machine labors away. I feel stuck, unable to escape this place. I fear that, much like the houseplant, Iāll be trapped here year after year, my graying hair and growing waistline the only remarkable markings of the passing of time. Part of me knows though, even in my darkest moments, that this isnāt true. I wonāt be here for years. The machine is quiet, its work is done, and thus, mine can begin. I attempt to work up the motivation to begin building the next button in the app, but instead end up on one of a myriad of sites I obsessively and almost unconsciously check. I donāt know why I do this. Perhaps a hope of novelty? Attempt two to get started, and I again am aimlessly wandering the web, not really reading, just glazing over words on pages.
Eventually, by the time half my coworkers have left for the day, I manage to get started. Then I canāt stop. I like being here by myself though, no phone calls or loud conversations to distract me from building something a grand total of five people will ever use or perhaps even know about. I justify that itās healthier to numb with work than with some sort of substance. Yet somehow I always feel empty after these late-night sessions. As though the energy I expended didnāt get transformed into a different form, rather consumed wholly and destroyed.
I hustle out of the office and out into the crisp early-fall evening air. I walk briskly past the lake, not taking even a moment to appreciate how the lights of the surrounding buildings dance off of its rippling surface. I feelā¦off-balance. Not upside down, but as though Iām not getting the return on my time I thought I would. Perhaps I really did wait too long to finally exhaust all my options, to go āall-in.ā Even though I know life is not a movie, I always childishly hoped there would be at least some fact sprinkled in the fiction. Iām starting to wonder if the old adage of ābetter late than neverā is really true or if itās simply another fairytale those of us without the courage to act swiftly tell ourselves to feel less like cowards.
A train pulls into the station and comes to a stop with a loud hiss. The doors open with an almost cute-sounding beep. I get on, find a free seat bathed in the bright neon lights, and sit down with a sigh. It will take me to my apartment. I wish I could call it home, but home it is not. I havenāt really felt home in years, and I sometimes wonder if home can ever really truly be found again by those of us who have been privy to multiple cultures. I still have a glimmer of hope, but it grows weaker every day, and some days, like today, it feels extinguished completely.