beginnings π±
it started as a cubicle in the forest. a chair. a desk. an empty rolodex. a folder with a single page in it.
can you believe father used to deliver mail here? uncle had a bearskin rug and a deer head above the fireplace. i always think about the sun above the canopy. what a different world. it is like we are below the surface here.
"choose your weapon," mother said. "a pencil, a pen, a typewriter, or a computer."
"i am the keyboard generation!" i proclaimed. the office walls grew. a blue cubicle in the forest beside the stream. this is the office. we are booting up for the first time.
the birds sound bored. i clickity-clack and dance in my chair. spots of sun hit the forest floor. i dream of the beach. but vacation is months away.
time is short, my strength is limited, the office is a horror, the apartment is noisy, and if a pleasant, straightforward life is not possible, then one must try to wriggle through by subtle manoeuvres.
β kafka