I had a bad day at work last week. A real bad day.
It was one of those days when your feet get knocked out from under you. When you question why you are there. When you wonder why you bother.
I was hunched over the desk, squinting into the glow of the monitor, typing numbers and letters into documents. I was pushing the rock up the mountain. The phone rang. It was my boss. He was calling from the other side of the Atlantic, he wanted to update me. Fifteen minutes later, I felt confused and beaten and empty. Somehow, I’d taken a big step backwards. The rock had rolled all the way to the bottom.
I sat there stunned. I’d been slapped in the face, punched in the stomach, kicked in the teeth. I sat there and wondered why I was sitting there. For what? For what?
On my way home, I bought a bottle. It was red and rough and obliging. I drank glassfuls and felt sorry for myself. I sank. One of the few things I had had turned on me. I sank lower.
I tried to distract myself, switched on the box, and then I saw the starving children. I saw the skin, the bones, the flies, the tears. And I couldn’t feel bad anymore. I had no right to. Another of the few things I had had been taken away.
Damn those starving children.
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