On the Way to Work

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The silence as you stir amongst the sheets. The crisp air that hits you as you sit up. You lie back down on your bed again. You are unwilling to accept the day that is to come. You are imprisoned by your own insecurities of what the day might be like. You are lost in what used to be your sleep. You get up for real this time, and prepare to leave.

Shaver, toothbrush, towel and cologne. These items scratch, scrub and stain your body in one way or another. Before you forget, you apply a dollop of wax to your scruffy hair, still disorientated from sleep. And just like that, you realise you’re fresh again. You walk to the front door with folder in one hand and wallet and handphone in the other. One sock shallows your left foot and the other devours your right. The shoes then take this opportunity to swallow the socks that have swallowed your feet. It is a snug fit. You walk out of the door, feeling a sense of heaviness. Like an ant carrying a grain of rice, there is the burden of the day ahead weighing down on your shoulders.

The morning air is still as it is cold. An occasional gust of wind runs through your hair, wraps itself around your bare neck. The sky is painted in brilliant hues of almost orange, nearly blue. The sun is shy in making its appearance but will regain its composure in time. You walk to this new day, the world around you waking up as well. Cars humming past on the road as the street lights switch off. Buses pregnant with the working crowd, motorcycles weaving between traffic. A pigeon lands on a streetsign just ahead. You notice the horizontal of the streetsign is decked with pigeons. One of them observes you as you walk past; studies you for all it’s worth. It soon loses interest and continues staring into the distance alongside its friends.

You walk past an overhead bridge that links to your workplace. The dark blue of the expired night is being steadily replaced by the brilliant orange that bleeds across the sky. The sun hides itself cleverly behind a building. When you finally see it, it is a small orb in the distance peeking at you in between building and greenery. It tells you that it will be yet another gruelling day, but it also promises that it will rise again tomorrow.

You walk along, take a right turn that brings you down the bridge. The stares of the pigeons and the glare of the sun is still throbbing in your vision, and you find the will to walk on. As if this day would be any different than the previous day, as if this day will make all the previous days worth it; you walk on, a steady lengthening of your stride. This is when you tell yourself, today will be a good day.

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