You lay on the couch and realize your youth has left, and it’s never coming back.
Earlier in the day, you walked with the people you work with around the building you show up to because that’s where you have to be for at least eight hours a day in order to receive money.
“Seven laps around the building is a mile,” a person walking next to you says.
You protest his claim, but then he says, “no, someone has a Fitbit that told them that."
“Oh, then it must be accurate,” you say to him, trying to avoid any further debate over how many laps around the building constitute a mile.
You think about how you’ve pretty much wasted the last ten years of your life.
Where “waste” means not engaging in activities that fulfill you, or not accomplishing much of anything other than the accumulation of mileage on your body, the occasional piece of pussy (not a very proper term for these times), a little bit of money (not enough), and a knack for bouncing from thing to thing.
In other words, you put yourself down for living , surviving, but not becoming a megasuperstarsuccess.
Like, everything short of being the most famous and rich and attractive and whatever person on Earth is considered a failure.
The purpose of walking around the building is to clear the mind so when it returns to the job it can focus better on work related tasks.
Like reading emails, and opening documents, and typing things, and figuring out stupid problems, and dealing with people who seem content with the default, and pretending to be one of those people who are content with getting whatever everyone else gets.
You think this act is stupid if it’s simply for the purpose of being better at your boring, monotonous, out of your control job, but you do it anyway because everyone else is doing it, and if anything, you’re a predictable drone whose more comfortable following the crowd than going against it.
So you walk in circles, pointlessly, filling up your mental capacity for returning to a job that you’re coming to hate.
The song you’re listening to was released almost ten years ago, and since then, the band who is performing it has released a shit ton of other songs.
You think, “just think where I’d be if I hadn’t quit."
Then sadness fills you at the thought of all that lost time, and wasted opportunity.
Then you think, “none of this shit matters. I’m still here,” and you return to focusing on using whatever time you do have remaining as wisely as possible.
And you do your best to convince yourself that being anything short of amazing all the time is OK, but it doesn’t really take, because the part of your mind responsible for telling yourself how awesome you are for just being lives in the clouds and isn’t very good at telling you those things unless you are amazing.
Validation is part of your lifestyle, and unless you’re experiencing it one hundred percent of the time, you consider yourself a failure.
You’re hardly ever comfortable just laying on the couch by yourself listening to a song you like, unless the hottest girl in the world is sucking your dick and money is raining down from the ceiling on your face and everyone is cheering your name and lauding you as the most amazing human that has ever lived.
After four laps around the office building, the guy who you work with on the same project told you about a friend he knows whose husband disappeared a couple of months ago, and how just recently they found his remains.
You say, “damn."