He does the same thing every single day of his miserable life.
Every morning, his alarm clock rings precisely at 7.03 a.m. He gives himself ten more seconds before he hits the snooze button, and another two more minutes to get up and enter the bathroom. In twenty-five minutes, he has to brush his teeth, take a shower and change into his working clothes. He takes another fifteen minutes to finish his breakfast(eggs, they must be scrambled), before stepping out of his empty flat, turning his key in two perfect turns. He turns around and presses the lift button. It is 7.45 a.m.
As he steps out onto the ground floor, he's got to find a way to get to work. At this point he has two choices: To turn left or right. To his left is a grey cement pavement, short and dull. On his right was a small geren field and trees, with a downtrodden dirt path. It is full of wild grass and vivid colours of mimosas, but it is five minutes longer than the alternative.
He never takes the right route.
Along the way at the bus stop he is lost in the sea of hectic people. He sees students carrying tin can appealing for Flag Day donations, but never once does he pull out his wallet. Few people did, so logically, why should he? He climbs onto the bus two minutes later, trying to forget the poor old woman at the bus stop peddling packets of tissue to him. He never once helped her.
He arrives at his workplace earlier than everyone else. He takes a glance at his silver watch and the hand is always precisely at nine. He is, as usual, fifteen minutes earlier than anyone else. He takes exactly ten steps to arrive at his office cubicle beside the window, looks out, and then starts work for the day. No on ever bothers to talk to him, and he doesn't bother to talk to anyone. Occasionally he brings his cup to his mouth, sips his coffe ( always coffe), and places it on the right hand side of the table, exactly half a metre away from him.
He does this every single day until 5p.m., and then he packs up and heads home on the grey cement pavement, the left route. Not a head turns to look at him; no one invites him to join them for dinner. Instead, he spends the long lonely night in his empty flat, watching football match re-runs silently and he eventually falls asleep in front of his television. He would wake up sometime near midnight, rub his dry eyesand crawl into his bed finally, waiting for the alarm clock to ring at precisely 7.03 A.M.
That was his life-a routine that went on and on. He always ties his shoelace from his left foot first. He always picks up his phone to check for calls before he turns on the television. He always wears his watch on his right write. He always eats chicken rice on Thursday evenings.
He doesn't remember a time when he didn't follow this monotonous routine. For the past nine years, three months and twenty-one days of his working life, his world has revolved around the same, methodical cycle, and he didn't think it would change.
He doesn't even remember the last time he stopped to think about it, until today.
He woke up with a jolt as his alarm clock rang at 7.03 a.m. Drowsily, he slammed the snooze button, and fumbled his way to the bathroom, ready to brush his teeth, take his usual shower and get changed for work in less than half an hour.
Something went wrong today though. He couldn't seem to find his green, love-sleeved shirt for some strange reason, and it troubled him very much. It was a Tuesday, and on Tuesdays, he always wore a green shirt. He had done so for the past nine years, three months and twenty-one days of his life and nothing went wrong until now. Five minutes later, he finally gave up on his futile search, putting on a lavender coloured crisp shirt.
The shirt was exactly the same size as his former green one the only difference being its colour. Somehow though, the cotton seemed to make him itch, the collar was too stiff and the shirt seemed to be too tight all of a sudden.
It was a Thursday shirt, not a Tuesday one. This thouht made him squirm.
He felt oddly uncomfortable in it. He never wore something other than that green shirt on Tuesdays, and it just made him feel fidgety. There was something quite wrong in wearing lavender today, and it made him feel weird and out of place.
But there wasn't another choice, and reluctantly he tried to face that fact that he was not wearing his Tuesday shirt. He glanced at his watch, and with another soft flip in his heart, he dashed out of the house, knowing the he would be late after all. He turned the doorknob and key twice, and entered the lift. It was oddly, not 7.45 a.m., but 8.
Once again he reached downstairs, and again he had to make a choice between two routes. Usually he would have taken the left without even having second thoughts, but today he hesitated. Something in his natural rhythm of movement stopped him from moving left, and instead egged him on to take the right. To the right? He paused, but then his feet moved toward the grey pavement on the left, and he mentally scolded himself for even thinking about it.
Of course he missed the bus, with all the trouble of the lost shirt he had in the morning. And this sudden realisation startled him. He had never, not once in nine years, three months and twenty-one days, missed the bus. Something odd was occurring, and he knew it. He just couldn't pinpoint what was wrong.
He arrived at work, almost a minute late Most of his colleagues were already there, and curiously they stared at the man, the one who always sat in his cubicle silently, the one who was never late, the one who wore green shirt on uesdays. They gawked at this man who rushed into the office wearing a lavender shirt, puffing heavily and one minute late.
Some turned to check the calender. It was Tuesday, wasn't it?
He arrived at his seat, dismayed to find himself in such a situation. Trying once again to shake off the oddlyness( Was there such a word? He never ever used improper English) that was happening. All would be all right, he convinced himself, once he started again on his work. And so he faced his wooden desk prepared to bury himself in the pile of files and paperwork.
Only there was none. His table was empty all except for a coffe mug. He had been too efficient. He had finished all of today's work the day before. There was nothing left to do.
He tried to create work for himself. He tidied up his table, keeping various pens and notes organised. He made himself a fresh cup of coffe. He tried to read through the tax file that he was supposed to submit two days later.
In less than an hour, he was done, finding that he had nothing else to do.
Idly he looked out of the window, tapping his fingers absently. For nine years, three months and twenty-one days he had sat in this very cubicle, and never once did he bother to look out of the window more than that one-second glance every morning. He decided there was nothing todo anyway, and so he tuned his head and peered through the foggy class.
He stared out at the scenery before him, only to find very little to admire. There was no profusion of flowers and scarcely any trees in the area. In fact, he observed that the streets were made of grey cement, not unlike the pavement he took every morning. Tall, steel-coloured buildings surrounded the area, also very much likethe building he enteredevery morning for work. Concrete jungle, really, was the most apt word to describe it.
He spied swarms of people everywhere, crossing the street, looking at their watches, fiddling with their files. No one paid closed attention to anyone, and no one cared. He wondered if he was one of them, lost in this world of monotony and routine. And then he realised that he didn't just wonder... he knew.
He was one of them.
He, like those people, had their lives built around routines and mobile phones. They were never spontaneous, and too absorbed in themselves to care about anything else. They were boring and dull, just busy, hectic people with busy, hectic lives. They never stopped for anything-everything in their life was planned. They only wore business suits ties and tailored pants, just like him.
Just like him...
How long had he belonged to this world that went in circles. He realised he had no answer. Was it all nine years, three months and twenty-one days he had experienced? Or had it been even more? Life had always just been a cycle to him, doing something in the morning and then reapeating it the next day. And the next. And the next. And the next.
Wake up, eat, work, watch TV, sleep. Wake up, eat, work, watch TV, sleep. Repeat next day. Repeat, whole life.
He saw those people passing and going by, passing and going away. They appeared, and were gone in a flash. They passed one another, but none of them greeted. None of them talked. They never stopped either, and their feet seemed to move on their own.
And he was one of them, he just never realised. And he knew taht they never realised. Some had even been following routines for a longer time than he.
Someone on the streets caught his eye again, a girl in just a simple skirt and flowered shirt. That was all. She was not dressed in a business suit. For a moment she moved like everybody on the streets, with direction and purpose with every step, as if trained with years of practice. But then she stopped.
She didn't move from that spot. She just stood there in the middle of the busy street where everyone was hurrying along. Closing her eyes, she tilted hear head up toward the sun, catching the bright glow onto her face. She let the sunlight fall onto her tan face, basking in the warmth of the light as it danced on her skin. She stretched her hands out, as if letting the light wind pass through her hair. She breathed in deeply, inhaling air and enjoying the cool rush. She just stood there in the middle of streets for two minutes doing absolutely nothing. And then she walked away.
A mystery. He couldn't help but wonder what she was thinking. Who was she? Did she belong to this world of monotony too? Or was she only passing by? Was she enjoying a spontaneous moment, or merly reliving a fine memory in her life? Or maybe, she just wanted to enjoy the little things in life - something he hadn't done in a long time. In fact, he hadn't thought about anything else but work for a very long time.
She didn't live in a routine, like he did. Something about her behaviour just triggered him, giving him the drive to be more inspiring than he was now. He wanted to stop, to pause, to appreciate the little things and not get lost in concrete and monotony. He didn't want to be that way. He wanted to break out of the never-ending cycle, to live what he should have so many years ago - a life.
He wanted to be like her.
Maybe he didn't have to follow a routine. Maybe he could take the right route home today, and admire the trees that he wanted to so many times. Maybe tomorrow he didn't have to wake up at 7.03 a.m. anymore. Maybe he could buy a packet of tissue from the old lady at the bus stop, or slip a coin into one of those donation tin cans. Maybe he could take a different bus. And maybe, he could just stop for ten seconds every day to enjoy the sun or appreciate the clouds.
Perhaps he could even start now.
"Hey, anynoe wants to join me for lunch today?"
Funny how a stranger or something so silly as a geren shirt can affect your life. Especially if said shirt is now lying somewhere in the corner of the bedroom of a flat, crumpled and rolled up on the floor.
He was eccentric. He's gone mad today, yes. But whatever it was, he is glad he could finally find the chance to remember how to breathe again.
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Rest in Peace.
I love you.
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