I'm standing outside of the automatic glass doors. I don't even have to touch the shiny glass and the doors will part. It's magic. I remember running in and out of doors just like this when I was a kid. I always thought it was a blast.
"I don't want to go to back to work," I think.
One more step and those glass doors will open, and I'll walk into the building. But I don't feel quite right. I haven't in a few days. No - probably a few weeks. OK, let's be honest. It's been a long, long time, hasn't it?
I guess feel like an ant that just realized he's an ant. Like this is all I am. Nobody thinks an ant is important. I doubt the Dalai Llama even really cares about individual ants. A silly old ant doesn't mean a thing.
That means I don't mean a thing. Doesn't it? I can feel myself freaking out about that, but then I see the other ants looking at me, saying: "Dude, go grab some nectar like a normal ant or I'm gonna beat you up."
There's a lot of pressure to perform. Isn't there? And all the other worker ants in my division keep grabbing nectar. The queen needs her food. I can tell they're not exactly happy little worker bees, but they keep doing their jobs.
I can't anymore. I really don't think I can.
What motivates all these people? I can never figure it out. From the way it looks to me, they're all trying really hard to distract themselves from something. They're never really living in the moment. Always looking ahead, never in.
I think I know what it is they're avoiding when they look at their phones, or start planning dinner in their heads. Deep down, they know they're ants too.
Well, that's enough of that. Put a smile on your face, Marky-boy. Time to go to work.
I took a step forward, and the glass doors opened, just as always. It's reliable. And I'm reliable. I never call off.
Look, I don't want to die. That's the truth. I'm not ready. So I go to work. That's the deal we make to live. No sense getting down about it.