I slumped down a dozen flights of steps. In my right hand, my leather brown suitcase clenched onto its life. It was quite heavy today, consuming all the tasks I was handed. You should’ve seen the mountain of documents in my tiny office. Every day I’d burn through all that paper; my work ethic was unmatched. Now it seems like my fire is flickering out. I make simple blunders, despite the fact I’ve become more robotic.
Why though? I wonder as I watch the busy vehicles race by, leaving red streaks behind them. Something must be distracting me. The pay at the office is adequate. I’ve bought nice trendy clothes, along with a plethora of fancy pens and watches that take up my entire living room-sized closet. With the multitude of raises I’ve received, I’ve also purchased bought my own Mercedes Benz. Yet it feels like I have nothing meaningful. Why is there still a hole in my soul? I think to myself as I slide into my yellow cab. I’ve wasted my life, my conscious whispers to me as I stare out the rusty cab windows, staring at the streetlights. Maybe he’s right, even after all the work I’ve done, the strings I’ve pulled, the facade I’ve lived, I am still not even rich. Sure, I’m upper middle class, but it's as if the last 30 years have been for nothing.
My Benz was recently stolen, and my elegant, humble abode in the gated neighborhood in the hills was sacked. They stole everything I’d worked so hard to earn, leaving my house in a barren state.
“OH, MY GOD! Are you alright, I heard what happened to your house… THEY DID WHAT?!... Dang, whoever did this is scum, nothing but a bunch of scavengers!... If there’s anything I can do, tell me and I’ll be there”, said my sister. Although she wasn’t actually there. I imagined it like I always do. I’ve played out that extract phone call for 2 years now. Yeah, my house was broken into 2 years ago, everyone knows. They just don’t care. Neither do I, I’ve still been working hard, but instead of buying replacements to my stolen belongings, I buy nothing but bottles.
The ride home sure is long. I sigh in emotional agony and watch as my warm breath condensates on the cab window. It was my favorite thing about winter when I was young; my sister and I would do this on every car ride to my aunt's house for Christmas. Action packed sibling duo films would play out on those windows. Sadly, there hasn’t been a sequel in decades. We haven’t talked in decades, nor seen or been with each other. We got along well back in the day, but nowadays I only get along with myself. Only I understand me.
I feel like an orphan surrounded by my foster family most days. The streetlights that would normally tower and frighten kids at night comfort me. They understand me, and I can relate to them. I too wake up to go to my job, work all day, and go back to sleep. We don’t need leisure time; it is a distraction, right?
Still, I wonder whether I made the right choices sometimes on the cab rides. As we drive, I see my brothers, the streetlights, shine on happy children jumping about swinging back and forth in the secure hands of loving mothers. They look so happy while the lights, on the other hand, appear gloomy and miserable. Lately, I feel even more like a street light. Life gets mundane, I think to myself every ride home from work. Questions why my life turned out like this swim to the surface, pushing out orders from my boss and reminders of taxes to file. I repeat the mantra that helped me cold-heartedly alienate myself into nonstop work, "I know my destination I'm just not there."