Words
Broken pencils still write, reminding us to never underestimate the potential of something seemingly damaged.
1.The Equation of Fear
Secrecy hangs thick, like pollution in the air, coating every interaction with a layer of suspicion. Workers operate in silos, their tasks fragmented and compartmentalized, each hand unaware of what the other builds. Information is rationed, passed in whispers, as though the knowledge itself were dangerous, an incendiary threat to the intellectual property they are sworn to protect.
Their insecurities come from the greatest and most predominant force on earth, which is the force of fear. The most prevalent way of dealing with fear is through attaining power. However, power is often attained through the oppression of others, and this is where the tragedy lies. When taking advantage of another for one’s personal gain, the oppressor becomes truly oppressed because they rely on their oppressive behavior to feel powerful. In truth, power is gone, fear remains, and insecurity flourishes.
You can almost think of the above as an equation, and if skilled enough, one can rearrange the letters to create a more familiar word, such as “love.”
Thus, solving the equation involves the following:
1. Acknowledge and accept fear since it can never be banished.
2. Always, always, always be good to others.
3. Never take advantage of someone for personal gain.
4. Help people overcome their insecurities.
These are the routes to true power. Perhaps it would then no longer be called “power” but something more beautiful.
2.Click. Send. Repeat.
Kriss was…
Burdened by deadlines, his inbox could not get any fuller. He wanted to quit.
The nameless figures in the open-plan office did not speak in coherent sentences; they communicated only in short-form emails, passive-aggressive emails, and text messages. They held countless, baffling meetings without being buried in spreadsheets and performance reviews.
Once every three months, they forced him, exhausted and weary-eyed, into endless quarterly reports. During the ordeal, he would sign off on information he didn't understand, approve budgets he couldn't justify, and deliver presentations to people who barely listened. Time blurred into a haze of fluorescent light.
He envied the overworked interns, the forgotten middle managers, the ones who had finally been laid off. Their suffering had an end, while his did not.
Click.
Send.
Repeat.
3.Inbox of Dread
The morning came without mercy. The air hangs with a weight of anxiety. I woke up heavy and unusually worried. I must have made a mistake. The problem concerns a specific email I sent, and I am anxious to see if I received a response. So, the first thing I did was turn on the computer to check my inbox. If that person did write, I could at least evaluate whether there is a problem. If the person didn't write, I have more reason to assume that there is one.
I patiently waited for my emails to open, and when the messages finally loaded, I realized she hadn't replied. My heart sank, pounding heavily against my chest as I began reading what I had sent, checking for any self-incriminating evidence that might have caused the recipient to go silent. It was mentally exhausting to scrutinize the content. I had written everything with great thought and care, and it felt like I was disrupting the natural flow, which prompted me to say what I did.
These thoughts are exhausting. Fatigue seeps into the bones like a slow poison, dulling reflexes and dimming the fire of will. Hands blister from typing, their calloused surfaces bearing the scars of monotony, while fingers stiffen, becoming little more than tools—extensions of the machines we serve. Breath grows shallow, rationed as though each gasp must be earned, and sweat gathers, cold and clammy, as the body fights to expel the heat trapped by effort and stress, as we are handed a new sales quota and prospects to contact.
This company is as worthless as the toilet paper on which I write my resignation letter.
I’m moving onto something better.
4.The Factory of Procrastination
The factory looks like a prison, with ten-meter-high walls and barbed wire fences. The general population is confined to cubicle spaces with paper-thin partitions, allowing everyone to listen to other people’s conversations and report whispers of resentment for a reward. Compassion is deliberately forgotten, erasing the memory bank of humanity and replacing it with the computer chips of conformity. Time doesn’t wind down at the end of a shift; it slowly erodes into a lingering memory.
At the entrance:
The factory gates creak open like the jaws of some mythical beast, swallowing all who step inside. Above the doorway, the sign looms, its metal corroded, yet its words unnervingly sharp: “Procrastination is betrayal. Work without delay.” The letters, though still, carry the weight of an unseen voice, cold and absolute. It is less instruction, more decree, an unblinking eye carved into steel, staring down at every trembling soul that enters.
At the exit:
When the day’s toil bleeds to its bitter end, the same sign watches their retreat. Its presence lingers in the dark, oppressive silence of the corridor, as though it has memorized each face, each hesitation, each weakness. “You may leave the factory, but not the rule,” the words seem to whisper. The workers step into the night, but the sign clings to them, an echo that follows into their dreams, promising that tomorrow, it will be waiting again.
5.The Sleeping Angel
Another all-nighter in the hotel room. Side by side, my colleague and I worked, her presence easing the pressure of the deadline. Until she finally surrendered to the collapse of her body’s unreasonable demand, stealing one or two hours of sleep before the client presentation in the morning. However, sleep offers no refuge, for even in rest, the muscles twitch, haunted by echoes of the day’s labor, going through the motions of fixing, framing, justifying. The body becomes a ledger of toil, each ache and strain a permanent entry, a silent record of hours surrendered to a system that demands more than it returns.
Our resolve was nearly broken, overwhelmed by the burden of managing client expectations and the exhaustion that came with it. Yet even in rest, the quiet strength of her resolve was evident. She drifted to sleep, and as I drew closer, I became aware of the invisible bubble of serenity surrounding her. Her head was low and partially hidden by her shoulder, and I recall my emotions illuminating as I moved around her body.
She exuded an absolute innocence that the forces of the universe couldn’t corrupt. Her stillness radiated all the peace that could ever exist. Her face was the image our ancestors saw when they drew the angels. I looked at her for a while and, somewhere during that time, understood what it meant to love. A little faith in humanity had resorted, and I sang a stupid song. Later that day, I grew weary of the world and became visibly upset. I questioned the truth of what I had seen. Was it an illusion I had created to confront the loneliness of this world? Or was there a thread of meaning to this existence? When found, the answer became inconsequential, for I knew that her sleeping image was not independent of who she was, but, in fact, it was a mirror of her essence. Still, my sadness ran deep, bordering on the fringes of fear.
The reason is that she was compelled to read a darker page from the Book of Life, and what she discovered was unexpected and unsurprisingly caused her great stress. My fear might have been totally unfounded, but since I didn’t know how she would be affected, I couldn’t help but fear the worst. I was afraid I would see a void the next time I caught her asleep. I would see the expressionless face of someone who speaks of the ugliness of life. A person who was once forced to question the beauty of her soul and answered it with rejection, concluding that her purpose in life is to conquer her fears without ever accepting them as an integral part of what makes her so beautiful.