Last week I picked a chair at one of the neatly organised desks and folded some paper, so I could write numbers in columns. Soon after, the numbers blurred away when my eyes started daydreaming.
I was sat there, looking out the window, where the wind was free and he led the leaves to their destination. I shouted after him, but the glass was soundproof. I wanted to catch him, but my fingers were stuck by glue.
Why didn’t I feel content when I’d chosen this room myself?
I looked around me, at the people bent over the desks. Nobody saw it, nobody listened. I made everything up in my head. Again.
I looked at the people and I envied them. Their simple minds, simple jobs, simple lives. They’re grateful for their jobs. They’re happy to be alive, surrounded by the loved ones. That’s all what mattered.
What is there that I’m looking for? Bored already by the plainly written words on the folded sheet of paper. What is there?