Someone, somewhere in this beautiful world

Waking up at 5:00 AM.
A cold shower to sharpen the senses. Just coffee for breakfast; bitter and reheated from the day before, to feel some semblance of urgency.
Glancing at the clock and realizing I’m already ten minutes late.
Rushing out of the apartment to the nearest bus stop while wondering why I care about being on time when my presence barely registers.
Traveling like cattle.

Arriving at work at 8:00 AM.
Staring at a screen until my eyes beg for drops, discussing ideas with people who, for some reason, matter to me but couldn’t care less about me.
Listening to my boss ramble about his upcoming vacation in that European country famous for simply existing, while dodging questions about when he’ll pay me for the overtime I worked three months ago.

Lunch break at 12:00 PM.
The cafeteria, a sprawling ecosystem of hierarchies, cliques, and ass-kissers cozying up to whoever’s in charge this year.
Sitting at one of the tables, as always, a different one each day since I started this job.
Noticing how my comments go unheard in conversations I was never invited to join.

Giving up.

Finishing the break smoking by the office window, because at this point—and I’m not talking about the building’s height—a bit of tobacco smell in the office hardly matters.

Sitting and typing until the day ends.

Leaving work at 5:00 PM, itching to lick an electrical outlet just to feel something, anything.
Exhausted.
Not from the work itself, but from the sheer fact of having to do this every day until I die.
Exhausted because the thought of this isn’t how I planned my life keeps creeping in, only for the voice in my head to snap back with a quick breaking news, idiot: you never actually planned your life.

Walking one way while everyone else goes the other.
Asking if anyone wants to grab a drink.
Hearing no response.

Taking the train, because in the afternoon, it’s faster than the bus.
Checking notifications on my phone:
Credit card offers to sink me deeper into debt, ensuring I’d have no choice but to keep working until, with a bit of luck, I drop dead at my desk from a stroke.
A pre-registration announcement for that gacha game I’d been waiting for, because the only way to feel like a hero in real life is by interacting with JPGs spouting affectionate lines.
Spam about “single moms in my area”—translation: click here to add another bad decision to your list.

Real notifications: zero.
Real messages: zero.

Trying to escape reality by listening to music during the ride.
Catching glimpses of others—people talking, probably planning a weekend get-together.
A few couples, likely just weeks into dating, loudly proclaiming their “unconditional and eternal love” in exaggerated displays.
Feeling a mix of disgust and envy at the sight.

Getting off the train one stop early and walking ten blocks to my apartment, claiming it’s exercise, though deep down it’s a desperate attempt to escape something.

Arriving home; instant food. Watching some poorly acted, low-budget series.
Questioning my life yet again, brushing my teeth, and trying to sleep.
Toss and repeat.

That’s how every day of my life went, but now I ask: is this what living is?
I’d say it’s just checking off days until I keel over from exhaustion, retire, or off myself.
All those possibilities seem equally likely, though I’d prefer to die at work. I bet more than one person would faint watching me convulse, foaming at the mouth, dancing my way to the afterlife.

Today, leaving work, I felt… “adventurous,” for lack of a better word. I wanted to try something new. Instead, I opted to get drunk alone—yeah, not exactly groundbreaking, but put yourself in my shoes, alright?

I went to the convenience store across from my apartment to buy cigarettes, a personal ritual I won’t bother explaining, and even if it mattered, I’m not in the mood to share why. I like stepping only on the white lines at crosswalks—I call it doing the Beetle, though I hate the band, and Ringo’s the only one I don’t mind.

What did people think when they saw me?
Is he high?
No, ladies and gentlemen, I’m under the influence of corporate life—probably less healthy than actual drugs.

I shuffled to the cash register, answered “fine” to the “how are you?”—“Fine” hasn’t been in my vocabulary since my teens; I only say it because it’s what people want to hear.
Trust me, no one actually cares how you’re doing, and they definitely don’t want to know if something’s wrong. They just want that “fine” so they can move on with their lives.

Outside, I put my earphones back in. Honestly, picking a 2:30-second song for the walk from the store to my apartment took longer than the shopping and waiting in line—yes, there was an old lady with a cart full of groceries who didn’t know how to use a credit card, but it’s a cliché I didn’t want to mention.

I hit play and walked even slower, my mind stuck on a single question: Is the shuffle on playlists really random? If the sequence repeats, it stops being random—I pay for a subscription, and they still scam me with non-random playlists.

One white line: for the meaningless days that lead nowhere.
Two white lines: for my youth slipping away, secure in monotony—secure in the daily grind.
Three white lines: for the tin man waving his arms, even when his joints are rusted shut.

The fourth line was because, maybe, even if I didn’t like it, this was probably how things were meant to be.

So I danced, metaphorically, of course, like the best of acrobats, to the bar two streets away.
I left my phone on the counter as they poured shot after shot of rum—not my favorite, but I like pirates, and though there’s no solid evidence, everyone knows it was their drink of choice. My plan was to see how fast I could drink and how much I could handle.

I must’ve blacked out around the eighth shot, probably.

I don’t know what woke me first—the feeling of two mechanical arms prying my skull open or my phone vibrating on the floor.

I didn’t remember a thing from the night before, which wouldn’t bother me except for one detail: the phone ringing on the floor beside my bed wasn’t mine.

Mine was in my left hand.