Standard comfort

Four-thirty pm, the world outside looks blue. It will rain at any moment, but I can’t tell, the air conditioning clouds my nose. I breathe a censored version of what’s out there, filtered and delivered at twenty-two degrees celsius, so I don’t feel anything else but the boredom that creeps on me like the ghost of all the desk-jockeys that preceded me.

My eyes are weak after months unchallenged by the grays, blues, and whites in this controlled room. The splashes of color are deliberated against this nothingness. A bright green mug, a purple shirt, and that’s it, I don’t want to draw attention either.

The perfect heigh of my desk and the ergonomic chair atrophy my muscles, my strength erodes with each passing minute. It complies with the country’s standard so the clock can tick away without me taking notice.

Far away, my eyes are drawn to the top of a lonely tree peeking through the only window. That’s eough view so I don’t forget about nature, but in the middle of a bleak parking lot to keep me chair bound, racking my brains for the reasons I stay in this job.

Another email I answer quickly, sometimes when there is a lot of work I get too excited and finish it . There are so many ways I can rearrange my desk. If I gouge my right eye out it’ll probably give me something to do for the next hour. My Pc doesn’t have solitaire.

Some read some write, some call home and their wives. We need to remember why we sit to degenerate. The pay is good, the hours too, two hours of work have to…