{.:.We sit in separate cubicles, being the same.:.}

\”Little Boxes\” Regina Spektor edition

Unfortunately I have officially begun.

Here I am, sitting in a cubicle just large enough for at least two-three hundred pound men (if they are hugging)–waiting for the elusive end of the day. My mother does it. My father does it. My step-father does it. You get the picture. We all sit and wait for our eight-hour marks so that we are allowed to leave this dreadful beige asylum. But how did we get here? When did we all become the exact same person, wanting the exact same thing?

We all want nothing but for the clock to slowly make its way to our pre-determined finish line.

Everyone is so excited for you when you get your first job offer–you have butterflies starting out, you are nervous about what you will be doing, while secretly dreaming that they will fall for your charm and promote you on-the-spot to a position so fantastic that you will actually enjoy what you are doing. Yet that never happens. Or not any time in the near future, anyway. That would be entirely too unrealistic. But who calls for realism, and why do we all want it if it is what is chaining us to our gray desks?

We all sit in our little cubicles, waiting. For the same thing. Tied down by the same thing.