I never thought it would happen but it finally has.
I go through my mornings like a zombie, staring at my computer screen, willing myself to write. To work. I take orders with a nod, a grunt and non-committal 'Ok'.
My in-tray is piling up and I watch the mountain of 'Urgent documents' grow before me. I mark my calendar with 'important' events when the only thing I find important right now is figuring which DVD to watch tonight and what time my Cubby will be online.
"Make this write-up interesting," the powers-that-be tell me. I hold my sigh and dutifully regurgitate previous ideas, changing a word or two here and there. The morons. They never even notice it.
Deadlines. I hate them. My life has become a circus of deadlines. Of deliveries. Of another page marked 'DONE' only to have another deadline shoved to my face.
If I have to write about another 'quaint district' or 'unique cultural experience', I'm gonna strangle myself with the damn telephone cord - which doesn't seem to stop ringing with demand after demand.
And don't even get me started with lunch time. One hour of my life where I have to decide what kind of carbohydrates to stick down my throat so that I can gain another five kilos to my already expanding frame. And to have people tell me, "You look fine...Just lose a few more kilos." Up yours.
Five pm rolls around and I run, nay, fly down the five flights of stairs, punch out my card like some factory worker and battle the scores of idiot drivers in KK just to get home. Lather, rinse, repeat.
I've lost the fire. The passion. Whatever you call it. I can't find the drive in this job anymore. I need to write from my heart. From my gut. Not from the recycle bin in the crevices of my withered brain.
Tell me there's more to life than this.