I imagine you, on any given Monday, taking public transport to work. You get on the train, bus, or whatever means of transport you usually use. You look at your watch; you’re in a hurry. You think, “I hope there are no delays.” You can’t find a seat. Instead, you lean against a wall and look out of the window. You sigh… “Just another Monday.”
You look around, and you see more of the same. People who hate Mondays, people who still have half their brains on the weekend and the other half on Friday. Your eyes meet those of some passengers: office workers, telemarketers, waiters, etc. You are all going to the same place – to earn a living – even if you stop at different stops.
“Why do you have to earn a living if it’s a gift?” You think as you arrive at your station. You don’t answer; you leave yourself on hold, like an awkward text message you don’t feel like answering.
You walk into work and try to smile. “It takes a lot of violence against yourself to be so peaceful on a Monday morning,” you say as you stifle the urge to argue with your manager.
You deal with the day: with your boss, the complaining colleague, and the coffee machine that has broken down again. You reheat your food in your silver, flower-embellished lunch box while you check your smartphone to see if you’ve been texted. “Bad idea.” Half the time, some WhatsApp makes your meal a bitter one. They don’t know how to tie their shoes without you.
You go back to your cubicle with your digestion still to digest. You make calls, send emails, and feign interest. You dream of the beach on your PC screensaver. “I’m going on holiday this year” You lie to yourself. You look at your watch. You have half an hour left. Every minute is eternal.
You go back to the train or the bus, or whatever means of transport brings you back home: that place where you sometimes feel like a stranger.
“So much fighting for this?”, “So much studying for this?”, “So much running for this?”.
Your head torments you back home. You don’t want to be grown up anymore. Being an adult is less fun than it seems. I wish there were a reset button. But there isn’t. You can’t be a kid anymore. Now it’s your turn to… “What’s my turn,” “What’s my purpose in life?” But again, you leave the question unanswered. You do it a lot. Don’t answer. What for? After all, it’s only about your life.
“Are you happy?” You run away from that question as you get to the lift. Busy (like you). You walk up the stairs. Your knees are burning, and you’re short of breath, but the damn question is behind you. You open the door to the flat, empty your backpack, and put the tupperware in the sink, “I’ll do it later” You lie to yourself again, and you end up doing it because if you don’t do it, who does?
“If you don’t do it, who will?” You repeat to yourself and realize that it’s not all in vain. That is not easy. That being you hurts. But you don’t hide, and you do what you have to do so that that house is not just a house but a home.
“It was not all in vain.” You say out loud – it escapes you – as your partner or your children, or your mother or your father, or your grandfather, or your grandmother, or your grandmother, or your dog, or your cat, or all of them at once, appears in the kitchen to welcome the king or queen of their home.
You are a King. You are a Queen. Remember that this Monday, when you go to work.
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