Thought Chasm

One throbs with empathy. Her heart is heavier than her head, filled with thoughtful and caring. She feels more for strangers than I do for myself. She’s quick to trust, vulnerable where I’m shielded.

She prefers to understand before interjecting, letting conversation soak before responding. Dripping with self-doubt and she’s self-assured, intermittently, she’s fiery when put on the defensive.

Another pulses with social energy, witty and entertaining. She befriends easily, spritzed with shy. Able to discuss about anything with anyone, she is quick to ask and understand.

She’s less open, aporetic but devoted. Dressed in head-to-toe rational, she can deflect or manipulate those incensed or less deft.

A third vibrates with words, talking without saying. He’s skeptical, slow to trust, quick to condescend. He’s low on friendships but fiercely loyal. He’s judgmental and shallow, thinking too much.

Typically, he’s logical, trying to get as much information possible before reacting. Other times he reacts before realizing, with mixed results. His written or spoken words distract, clouding shaky points or thoughtless insights.

For too long they’ve been separate, finding themselves at their own pace. Together is different now, more interesting, less stressful. It’s far more enjoyable.

Three so different, yet similar. Linked through so many double helixes and shared environments. There’s no foretelling what’s to come but more time together is a necessity.

The granite shivers, laughing as I near the doors, mocking me. The windows smirk, knowing I’d rather be anywhere but behind them. The door welcomes sarcastically, ready to embrace me despite my discomfort.

The elevator quivers, snickering as the light from each floor, barely visible in the slit between its doors, warns of my getting closer. The button shines brightly, almost pulsating, then suddenly, it expires. With an “ugh,” the elevator falls to a stop. The doors ease open.

I walk slowly to the door, sigh and pull out my wallet. I hold it up to the tiny red light, hear the click of the door, twist the handle and pull it open. The hall screams at me, begging me not to enter.

I turn the corner, following the row of cubicles instead of the bleak off-white hall. There’s only the quiet buzz of the ducts above, no hint of the coming commotion. The blinds are drawn, blocking some cold air but mostly the light, the view, the outside.

The desk wraps around the cube, terminating at a metal shelving unit. It’s attached to the cubicle walls, jutting out just far enough for me to curl into the fetal position beneath it, hidden from direct view. The “walls” themselves are wrapped in red or beige felt, topped with a one-foot by three-feet piece of fogged glass.

The fabric saps my energy, slowly, satiating itself on tiny morsels instead of engorging itself, leaving me shriveled and comatose. The decorations are sparse, only covering a small portion of the woven, metal-framed, not-quite-to-ceiling prison.

I roll the exercise ball that replaced my chair awhile back in front of the computer, popping it open. The day has begun.

From here, the office fills with coworkers. They mill about, contributing to a dull white noise, typing, dialing, talking and shuffling. Announcements ring over the PA, twice for redundancy. Questions, answers, questions, meetings, meetings about meetings.

The day drags, slowly loping by like a freakish beast written of in books or on cave walls. The weight of it suffocating and indifferent. Project after project, indecision after argument, YouTube clip after Tweet. Eight hours, maybe more, of monotony.

The digital displays, never synchronized, eventually mark the end. There are no chimes, no trumpets, just a dull realization.

I close the laptop, tear myself from the cubicle and stride down the hall. I twist the door handle, ignore the mild static shock and step out, quickly, to the elevators. My heart moans in pleasure at the faint click of the door closing behind me.

The elevator descends, arduously, releasing me thirteen levels below. Immediately I’m on the street, walking slowly, running for my life. Trying to forget I’ll face the laughs, smirks and jeers of my tormentors again. Tomorrow.