Tick

The clock is mocking you. Daily it glares down at you, challenging your optimism. You turn to look at it and it cackles back, providing evidence that barely two minutes have passed since you last gazed at it. It knows its winning. It felt like hours. Every time you spin your chair around to engage in war with it, it's poised for attack. And with one slow ebb of the second hand it's launched, sent puncture wounds into your already battered psyche. Tiny lesions where your ambition can seep through. You've been bleeding for years. Ever since you left university. Before then you were titanium. Failure an impossibility. Then the rejections came, so many of them endlessly streaming from corporation after corporation. 'We thank you for your application but we're afraid we are not hiring currently' Yeah, right. Your back's to the clock now, but you can still hear it, every tic another assault to your raw injuries. The first hits, they hurt the most, the first steps away from your dreams, they stung with a power like you couldn't comprehend. But back then you believed you would heal. They were only obstacles and you'd recover, right? Yeah, right. You kept the dream in sight. But you were getting further and further away, more and more hurt. You started to substitute your ambition in lay of money. That's all work became to you then, money. You lost that edge that you held throughout education, your lust for debate and knowledge. So much so that by the time you were shown to your seat behind the glass here, you could barely even remember what your dream was. You were so hardened by rejection that your skin was thick, layers upon layers of scar tissue protecting you from the pain of the world. Even the clock didn't really hurt anymore, transiency was ripe in this wool padded chair facing the station. You remember what the wizened guard had said to you after your orientation, after you were taught how the ticket machines worked. 'I think you'll enjoy it here'. Yeah, right. That was twelve years ago. Even in your own mind you're not sure why it's been that long, you blame the economy, unemployment, but truthfully it's you. You got so comfortable here, and you were so afraid of failing again. Terrified, even. Despite your thick skin you're a coward. A worthless servant. You don't even lie to yourself in the mirror anymore, whisper to yourself in the dark. What's the point? Every time your mind adopts its peppy cheerleader status and tries to restore morale you scoff. You tell yourself it'll get better, you dust off that old dream and you swim in its glory. You'll quit tomorrow, you'll do it, you'll chase that dream and you'll catch it and ravage it so hard it'll be limping for weeks. Yeah, right.

You're impotent. Your dreams limp. Worn and old, nothing but sinew and pain. Bleeding, bleeding, bleeding - the tick of the hand just waiting for you to clot. But you'll be okay, right?