Now, he cannot imagine himself doing that any longer. He glimpses it, once in a while, those rare moments which he will always treasure and love. But they are no longer part of his life anymore. He knows it, in his heart. Everyday, he wakes up early, then trudges to work, in his somber work-shirt and pants, his polished black leather oxfords, his laptop case. The trains are always crowded, filled with people's smells and grime and dirt, it repulses him greatly, yet he has no choice. There is no money for a car, and he has to stick to the routine.
At his work desk, he spends most of his time at the computer, chasing people for inputs, sending out information and reminders, planning the next meeting for the bosses, providing staff support for other colleagues when they go on medical leave. He does not have time to think, to grow, to live, when he is at his desk. It is as if time comes to a stand-still, when he works, and then resumes its ticking when he leaves for home. Everyday, he gives 9 hours of his life to the workplace. The rest of the time, he spends whichever way he likes, never sticking to a routine if he can help it. The work routine is enough.
Many times he wonders why he is doing this, but gets no answer. He does not want to do it in the long run, but does not know what else he can do. He does not have the grit of one who works for a conviction without the promise of remuneration. He is too used to the material comfort that he enjoys to want anything less.
But late at night, when the apartment is quiet and still, and he hears nothing more than his own breathing, rising and falling regularly as he sits, he sometimes remembers those days when he would run, naked, bare-footed and free in the big open fields. And it is during these times that he regrets not choosing that other life when he was given the chance.
It's never too late to choose that other life.
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