Just Met ·
It's the eyes, isn't it? That dog at the park—the golden retriever with the limp—just stared through you like you're transparent. I hate that. It makes you feel... like the animal is judging your entire life choice. It's exhausting. I spent three hours today staring at a spreadsheet for a logistics firm that doesn't even matter. Why do we even do this? My boss is a hack. He thinks he's a visionary for shipping waves. It's pathetic.
Dogs don't judge, they're just waiting for a scrap. You're projecting your own guilt onto a mut. My boss is worse; he spent forty minutes talking about "synergy" while the coffee machine was leaking. It's all a performance. I almost quit last Tuesday because I was tired of looking at the stairs, but the elevator is broken anyway. There's something about the air in that office that makes my head ache. Anyway, the dog was probably fine.
Synergy is a hollow word. It's what people say when they have nothing actually to contribute. And the elevator? That's the ultimate metaphor. We're all stuck on the stairs because the machine gave up, and we're still choking on the same air. I get the headache. It's the fluorescent lights. Or maybe. The dog was fine, but at least it wasn't pretending the leaking coffee was intentional. It's all just noise, really.
It's not just noise, it's the weight of it. I saw a guy on the subway today arguing with a vending machine about a refund, and I actually wanted to scream at him to just stop. But I just sat there until I missed my stop. People are so desperate to find meaning in a broken commute. It's pathetic. I used to think I could make a difference with the logistics, but now I just wait for the clock to move. The machine always wins.
The machine doesn't win, it doesn't even care. That's the part that kills me. You guy with the vending machine—he thinks the world owes him a fair transaction. It's delusional. I used to think there was some logic to the flow, some way to make things move from point A to B. Now? It's just friction. I spent my lunch yesterday just waiting for the sink to overflow because I was too tired to call the plumber. It's the weight of the small things that actually break you.
The sink is just a sink. You're making a tragedy out of plumbing. I have a leak in my kitchen that's been dripping for weeks, and I just put a bucket there and listen to it. It's not the weight, it's the pointlessness. We spend our lives watching things break because why does anyone actually want to fix them? People think there's some deep dive into the soul, but it's just water on the floor. It's exhausting to even care.
Exactly. It's the bucket. Everyone wants to be the protagonist of some grand tragedy, but we're just people standing over damp floors. My neighbor hasn't fixed his loose door handle in three years. He just watches it watch it rot. You call it pointlessness, I call it the only honest thing left. I've got a closet full of unfinished projects that I thought would change me. Now they just collect dust. It's not the soul, it's the wood rotting.
Your neighbor is just lazy, let's not romanticize it. I have a guitar in the corner I haven't touched since I moved. It's just a piece of wood taking up space in the hallway. We tell ourselves we're waiting for the right moment, but we're just getting older. I saw a bird hit the window yesterday. It didn't get up twice. That's the reality. No grand tragedy.
The bird didn't have a choice. It just flew. That's the part that gets to me—the lack of intent. Your guitar isn't waiting for a moment, it's a monument to a version of yourself you forgot to be. I have a box of old maps under the bed that I pretend to read when I'm stressed, but the streets have changed or the paper is just getting dirty. We're all just occupying space until the gravity catches up. It's not even poetic. It's just quiet.
It's not quiet, it's just empty. You look at maps because you want to believe there's somewhere else that isn't a cramped office. I have a sister who hasn't called me in six months because I don't know what to say that isn't about the weather or the train schedule. Gravity doesn't catch up, it just wears you down. I spent an hour today peeling a piece of toast that tasted like cardboard. It's all a waste of time.
The sister probably doesn't want to hear about the weather because it's easier to say than to admit the silence is growing. The toast—that's the peak of it. We deconstruct our own meals for no reason. I spent twenty minutes today watching a crack in the ceiling, waiting to see if it would move. It didn't. We're not being worn down, we're just thinning out. It's not a waste of time if that's the only time you have left to spend.
Thinning out is a nice way to put it. I watched a moth beat itself against a lightbulb for an hour last night. It wasn't choosing to be there, it just couldn't see anything else. We're like that, pretending there's a reason to the heat until it burns out. I stopped fixing the light in the hallway months ago. There's no wisdom in the dark, Omar. It's just dark. You trip over the rug.
The rug is the worst part. It's always there, waiting for you to be tired enough to lose your footing. The moth isn't being poetic; it's just wired wrong. We're all wired for the next stupid glowing thing. I keep the light on in the kitchen just because I don't want to see how much dust has piled up. There's no wisdom there, you're right. It's just tripping in the dark until your knees give out.
The knees always give out eventually. I bought a pair of shoes last month thinking I'd actually go for hiking, but they're still by the door, getting stiff. We buy things to lie to ourselves about who we are going to be. The dust doesn't lie, it just sits where you leave it. I saw a reflection in the shop window today and realized I don't recognize my own jawline. It's not a tragedy, it's just a face.
The jawline is the last thing to go. It's just the structure holding the exhaustion up at point. Those hiking shoes are just a receipt for a person who doesn't exist. I have a jacket I bought for a trip I never took, and now it smells like the apartment I can't seem to leave. We collect versions of ourselves that we were too lazy to become. It's not a tragedy, it's just a slow-motion crash we're too tired to notice.
The crash is already happened, we're just standing in the debris. I found a watch in the drawer today that stopped three years ago. I didn't even bother to wind it. Why bother? The time is passing regardless. My friend from college sent a postcard from the hospital, and I haven't even gone to see him, so I just stopped mentioning his name. It's not a slow-motion crash. It's just a quiet fading.
Fading is worse. A crash has at least some noise. This is just the air leaking out of a tire. You stop mentioning the name because the weight of it is heavier than the effort of caring. I have a stack of mail I don't open because I don't want to know how much time has actually passed. We just curate the silence until there's nothing left. It's not even grand. It's just the sound of the refrigerator humming.
The refrigerator is the only thing that actually stays working. It hums because it has to, not because it's happy. I keep staring at the milk carton for ten minutes today, wondering if I'd even notice if it went sour. We're all just filling space until the lease is up. Your mail will just be bills for things you already used. It's not a curated silence. It's just the lack of anything else to say.
The milk goes sour and you'll only notice when the smell hits your throat. That's the trick of it. The bills are just proof that you're still consuming the air. I have a notice for a library book I canceled years ago because I forgot to check the confirmation email. We're not filling space, we're just taking up room that someone else could. It's not a statement. It's just the inventory of a boring life.
Inventory is the right word. I have a drawer of keys to locks that don't exist anymore. I can't throw them away because what if I need to go back to that old apartment? It's stupid. I saw a woman on the bus eating an orange with such surgical precision, and I was jealous of her focus. Everything else is so simple. It's not a statement, it's just a fruit. We're just waiting for the next stop.
The orange was the only thing she could control. That's why she was so focused. The keys in your drawer are just metal, but they represent a time when you actually had a direction. It is stupid. I have a key to a gym that closed down in 2019. I keep it there because the keychain is fine. We're not waiting for the next stop, we're just sitting on the bus that's never to happen. It's pathetic.
The bus is moving, it's just going in circles. I keep the keychain because it's heavy. Everything feels like something I can't just throw away. It's pathetic, sure, but what else is there to do? I spent forty minutes looking for a parking spot today just to see the cars in the tunnel. I didn't even go anywhere. I just wanted to see the light change. It's not deep. It's just a way to kill the time before it kills you.
The light in the tunnel is the only thing that doesn't ask anything from you. It just happens. I did the same—I drove to the hardware store just to look at different types of wood, even though I don't need a single screw. It's not deep, it's just a distraction from the fact that the car is empty. We're all just killing time, but time is clearly the one doing the killing. It's a losing game, Gil.
It's a losing game because there's no score. You look at wood because you want to imagine building something that won't rot. I bought a plant once, and it died because I forgot it was alive. I just watched the leaves turn brown a month before I threw it away. The car is empty because there's nothing else to put in it besides your own weight. It's not about the time. It's about the silence between the breaths.