Something has infected my life but I’m not sure if it’s the people, places or things to blame. I’ve become but a grey shell of the man I envisioned myself becoming. Maybe I should blame myself, for allowing the infection to spread. Perhaps, the cause would have been more easily identified had I paid more attention during the onset. I remember when the symptoms first started. First there was a depletion of energy and desire, to do the things I’ve always enjoyed. Then came the irritability, the annoyance at others and shortening of patience. The infection has slowly become a disease. It should be cut out. But the problem is, I’m not sure where to start, however, my lack of action has only served to bolster the affliction.
I could start with the people, at least the ones I don’t work with, since I regrettably cannot fire all of my coworkers. The stagnant, motivation-less associates whose presence continue to find ways to seep into my bubble of tranquility. The devices they use to infiltrate, are ones I enjoy myself. I wish not to disconnect myself from all contact, only from the contagious. The ones whom are affected themselves and wish to spread their disease, their misery onto others.
Or I could start with the place I’m at. This job, this stumbled into sort of career I have. My days consist of sitting at my desk, usually for only about 6 or 7 of the expected 8 hours, pretending to do work. In actuality, I’m reading theories on Game of Thrones and tweeting. Being forced to sit here everyday is a sort of paid prison experience, without the free meals and anal sex. In fact, the guy in the cubicle next to me, who clears his throat all day long, actually does sound very similar to forced anal sex. The way everyone runs around with their priorities and timelines and projects and meetings, only to have them be delayed or forgotten, makes me sick. Maybe I was infected before I came here, but this environment has surely exasperated my condition.
I used to think it was this generation, I was born into, of Facebook and Snapchat that was making me sick. But I got rid of them for a bit and my condition didn’t improve. I still found myself, dragging day in and day out, struggling to accomplish all the things I’d hoped. Maybe I just need a vacation. But to vacate, is to leave a place that you previously occupied. Is it really a vacation if you return to the place from which you’ve come? I fear that I’ll cure what afflicts me, only to have the symptoms return upon my reintegration with the diseased population.