I stare at the blinking cursor in front of me and wonder what’s next. I let myself get swallowed up by the monotony of office life: wake up, eat, travel, work, sleep; I try to revel in its off-white walls and the cacophony of voices that course through my head like nails scratching a blackboard.
Funny, that word – blackboard – like my mood, black and bored, or better yet, like me – a black board. But the human tendency for self-preservation drives me to find things to fill the void; sometimes with fleeting trifles I try in vain to attach meanings to, or sometimes with things intangible and profound, like hope, or faith.
But it seems that there is no rest for the dammed.
Damned by the reminders of past mistakes, damned by the hollow tedium of today, and damned by the uncertainty of what lies ahead.
Or it could be that I’m really just bitter, as someone pointed out not so long ago. Not a bad conclusion, really, with me allowing myself to be consumed by memories of failure, or by the banality of the now, or by expectations of the worst. But then again, all I’ve said are facts – facts for me, at least. And I am talking about MY life, aren't I? So now, where do I draw the line between melancholy reality and exaggerated bitterness?
Or maybe reality really just IS bitter, hence the existence of that little thing called Murphy’s Law, and those terribly astute and cliché sayings like “Life sucks,” and "Shit happens." And that maybe all incidents of happiness are just exceptions to the rule, like parts in a million.
No, there is no rest for the damned, no rest indeed.