Workdays are workdays. They can be interesting, surprising; most of the time they are bland. There are sources of smiles and lots of reasons to frown. You just push through, do the tasks, try not to procrastinate–often fail. My phone remains in my bag so as not to be distracted, but I take breaks by chatting with people.
Workdays are workdays. You’ve got managers and they don’t all agree and the instructions are all over the place. Sometimes the pressure is too much. Sometimes I just drop my head on the desk and have a good cry. It’s alright. We all do this, don’t we? Is there even such a thing as a healthy work environment? I shouldn’t complain. At least I only work forty hours a week? At least I get money out of it. Hey, I have a stable job, and some of my colleagues are nice. I shouldn’t complain. I am lucky.
And when it’s time to leave, I always leave late. Complete this task, do this or that, get thrown out by the agent who wants to close the building because maybe I got too into my work suddenly, or maybe I just collapsed and fell asleep on the keyboard but it’s normal, it happens, I’m just sick and tired, my doctor is helping me. Maybe I’m just procrastinating from facing the one hour and a half commute that awaits. Maybe I’m trying to gather strength to just get back home.
And the later I leave the worse it gets. Don’t leave after 7pm, that’s when Disneyland’s parad ends and tourists overflow. The cute, bubbly, way too happy tourists become noisy; they are excited and my senses are overwhelmed. Loud music of people watching the videos they took. Children crying. People laughing.
At least they’re happy and I can’t steal them that, I’d be happy too, let them be happy.
Focus on the fanfiction. Focus on the Discord. Focus on something else.
As long as my phone is in my hands, it’s okay?
And there it comes.
The train is back here, to the border of Paris. I don’t even need the voice, I know it, because the bubble is back in my chest, and that’s when I know, that’s the moment I wonder if anyone will notice that girl (woman, you’re 29) taking the pink pill, letting it melt in her mouth with an awful face, because it’s so bitter it hurts, and it’s back to the city, back to the flow.
And the corridors are here again. And Nation, and I wonder if anyone will notice that girl (woman) who desperately grips the border of the mechanical stairs because her knees have given up on her due to anxiety and physical pressure (so I am bad with pressure in every meaning of the word. So my ears may have troubles. I don’t know), but she can’t fall, not now, not in the middle of the mechanical stairs. People would get hurt, and there’s no way she’s falling in the metro corridors.
She won’t be yet another malaise voyageur. Not another speaker announcement in the corridors.
Get off the mechanical stairs and move on.
Safety, security as a fucking excuse. Seeing people carrying rifles on my daily trip to work doesn’t do anything for my safety. It just kills me inside.
Dumb it down.
Just like you’re someone.