Just Another Day in a Foreign City
Getting lost in the white-collar dream
As consciousness gradually dawned, I could feel the soft warmth of the bed enveloping my senses again, a comforting embrace for me in the realm between dreams and reality.
I turned my head to the left gazing through the curtain wall at the sea from a near distance. On the horizon, a procession of towering cargo ships emerges like silent giants against the tranquil backdrop which the visible stream of dark air was constantly unleashed. The sky wore a flawless blue hue, mirroring the impeccable weather gracing the day.
I turned my head to the left and observed the angle of sunshine in the sparse room. I mumbled to myself.
“It’s about 9:30 now, perhaps I should wake up.”
I did a repeated roll of left and right, before stopping at the left side of the mattress and checking my phone for the time. Damn it, it was 10:30. I could never guess it was close enough. I got up and walked to the washroom. That’s pretty much my daily routine on weekdays.
After washing up, I walked to the messy kitchen. I tended to leave my stuff on the already chaotic kitchen table as it was the closest to the apartment entrance. I dug through various packages sat on top of each other and grabbed the package with “meal replacement” written on it. After preparing that, I went into my office.
I slid the curtain toward both sides and opened the windows on the curtain wall. The sun quickly warmed the space and the air rushed into the room through the window, carrying a fresh, invigorating breeze that fills the space with a sense of renewal and vitality.
After gazing out of the window for god knows how long, I went to sit on my chair and fired up the laptop. Peering into the blank, dark computer screen felt like looking into a mirror; amidst the void, my reflection stares back, revealing disheveled hair while drinking the meal replacement.
Just in time for my scrum call, at eleven in the morning, much the same, as most of my colleagues, we raised our tone to express our enthusiasm on the topics discussed and provided our opinions on how we should best deliver the requirements. The call ended in ten minutes and I proceeded to draft the emails and work the required code change for the day.
Suddenly, the shrill cry of the alarm clock shattered the silence and jolted me from my concentrated reverie like a bolt of lightning. I set an alarm clock at noon every weekday to stop myself from becoming over-engrossed in my tasks. I emerged from the depths of concentration and turned to stare at the unblocked sea view outside the window. Resting my eyes, my mind wandered, pondering when this repetitive cycle of working and sleeping would finally reach its conclusion.
I stood up, walked to the balcony, and glanced up at the sky to see if it was clear and free from rainy clouds. Upon checking, I grabbed my key, phone, and sunglasses from the living room table, reached for the bike beside my shoe rack, and swiftly left the home.
Traverse through the familiar road along the terrace house on both sides, the scene unfolded before me with a subtle yet constant flux. Each ride on this path offered a slightly altered perspective on the surroundings I thought I knew so well.
After a ten-minute ride, I reached the stairs that directed me to the underground tunnel across the expressway on top of it. I was always curious about how the construction engineers made it happen, however, the curiosity never once surpassed the bounds of my laziness to venture into the realm of discovery. The 50-meter tunnel was about two stories below sea level, as the bike propelled forward, the echo of metallic clicks and whirs harmonized with the rhythm of pedaling.
As I approached the other end of the tunnel, a faint hint of saltiness permeated the air, carried by the breath of the sea while the light grew brighter, guiding my way forward. Climbing up the stairs, I was greeted by the sea after the flat and well-constructed path. The path was four meters wide and shared by pedestrians, cyclists, and also skaters/rollerbladers sometime. It was bordered by lush and neatly trimmed grass on both sides, with small groups of people gathered and sat on the side of the grass facing the sea.
I had done it, probably more than a hundred times by now, but I was doing it again; with the sea on my left side, I pedaled along the path, overtaking one group after another. With each pedal stroke, I weaved through clusters of people, the wind rushing past as I surged ahead on my bike. I felt a surge of vitality coursing through me again in this heartless facade of urban life.
After cycling aimlessly for what felt like an eternity, my eyes caught sight of the familiar appearance of the cafe I frequented. The cafe boasted a contemporary window wall design, inviting streams of sunlight to penetrate the color interior that illuminated every corner, infusing the entire space with a warm and welcoming ambiance. I dismounted my bike, propped it against a nearby pillar, and walked straight to the front of the cafe with a sense of assurance that everyone was too absorbed in their task to even notice it, let alone consider taking it.
I ordered my usual coffee and toast and sat on the alfresco facing the path and the sea. Despite its spacious layout, the cafe appeared deserted, with only a sparse scattering of customers. Most of the cafe patrons likely remained entrenched in the relentless grind of their daily lives inside the office buildings, far away in the bustling financial district so they could enjoy this on the weekend.
Sitting there, observing the ebb and the flow of people passing by, each one seemed to carry a story, their movements a testament to the diverse tapestry of life unfolding around me. I allowed my thoughts to wander, like leaves carried by a gentle breeze.
I wondered, how much longer I would continue to tread this soulless path, devoid of true passion and purpose. It was a question that lingered, haunting my thoughts as I grappled with the desire for a more meaningful existence. I was certain the urban migrants who gave up everything they had, be it familiarity or social connections, came to this foreign city for potential opportunities, hoping they could have a better future for themselves or their family, and felt the same.
If I could turn back the clock, I would make different choices. Hindsight brought clarity, I saw the paths I wished I had taken, and decisions I wish I had made differently. If given the chance, I would rewrite my story, I would choose not to come to this city. I would stay where I belonged despite the downsides. But again, who knows? I made the decision, based on what I thought was best for myself at that moment, following the rest of the teenagers who rushed to the city to become a part of the city dwellers.
I might be the lucky one, however, the emotional toll was unbearable. Throughout all these years, I had grown accustomed to the conveniences, services, and entertainment brought by the unfortunate in this densely populated city. I had long forgotten the rural ethos of communal support and the simplicity of life. Those values had faded into distant memory, replaced by the relentless pursuit of individual success and material wealth. I felt deserted in this city. I could never go back and live as I used to be before. Something has to change but I don’t know what and how.
As I was lost in contemplation, my phone suddenly buzzed with a notification, pulling me back to reality. With a sigh, I glanced at the screen and saw that it was a work-related message, disrupting the tranquility of my thoughts with the demands of professional life. I stole a glance at the clock and noted that it was 4.00 pm; a realization that time had slipped away faster than I had anticipated. After receiving the takeaway food I ordered and paying the bill, I emerged from the shelter, and once again bathed in sunlight. I mounted my bike and began my journey homeward, riding directly into the sun’s radiant path.
