Taken during a break from work...
Click, scroll, read. Click scroll read. Repeat. Indefinitely. Repetition repetition repetition. Repetition of movements and thoughts and actions and breaths. Of blinks and coughs and little twirls of hair around your fingers.
If you were a character from...
but you're not; you're you. But if you weren't you, who would you be? Who would be you?
Who do you want to be?
Look at all the people smiling. What do they smile about? Lovers, poets, friends, memories, jokes. Joke's on you; sarcasm, anger. Hidden behind a smile. They smile because they don't know what else to do. Do they laugh at you or with you or without you? What is the secret behind their laughter? Why is it secret from you?
You laugh because they do. You laugh because it sounds foreign. It sounds like another you, a you on a plane, a you with a suitcase, a you in an ao dai or in a jalabiya, a you speaking words you don't know. You laugh because maybe you forgot how.
A fly buzzing in a fluorescent ceiling light. Its January. Is it the first fly of the season, or the last? Escaping the cold, escaping the wet, escaping the exhaust and ice and smog and sweat. Escape.
Who is worried, and who isn't? How can anyone tell behind the mask of computers we hide behind? Is her arrogance worry? Are his angry cusswords worry? When he shrugs, does he shrug from nonchalance or does he shrug with worry? Does it matter? If such things are only, are all, ephemeral, if this computer, these post-it notes, those mechanic pencils, the voices I can hear echoing up through the wooden staircases and concrete walls... if they are only here for this moment and none other, should I type? Should I take notes? Should I write? Should I listen?
What is the life of a hermit if not one without the constant worry, hate, anger, fear of others?
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