Therapy Chair in red color

What is he writing?

Other than the sound of a vacuum running in the distance, it felt painfully quiet. The hall was crowded with people, and yet, no one dared make a sound. It was a bright space, filled with the light reflecting off the ceiling and the sun rays shining brightly through the glass windows. It was a beautiful day outside.  Looking out, one could witness a diverse view that only spring brings. The rainbow colors of nature and synthetic fiber were slowly sprouting up in the horizon. Given the welcoming atmosphere outside, one could wonder why anyone would be sitting in this dull and monotonous hall.

Often times, we do things that we don’t want to, and we give up things that we didn’t want to. Such is life. In order to achieve our dreams, we have to go bound our boundaries, beyond our limitations. We have to stand up from the comfort of our couch, walk out from the warmth of our blankets, and step into the furnace of reality. Then, and only then, can we achieve the utmost goal, the ultimate satisfaction.

As the cleaning staff made their way across the hall, they came to the small corner with four desks, arranged around each other; making the edges of a symmetric square. Each desk was big enough to have eight people around it. Made from wood, with a polished surface on top, these tables provided a sense of belonging to the visitors of this room. For however long they wanted, a small surface area of this table belonged to the individuals sitting in front of it. In this huge space, that small piece of “land” was a place for them to call their home away from home.

Even though the tables were big enough, eight people hardly ever sat around it at the same time. Humans and their personal desires often supersede the design and efficiency of most inventions in the world. Often times, a thing is rarely used for its intended purpose and hardly ever used in its most efficient manner. At that point in time, an average of two people sat per desk, and secretly, they were all hoping that it would stay that way.

One individual, in particular, was delighted that he did not have to share any more of his desk space than what he was normally used to in this hall. If anyone were to pay attention closely, you could even see him smile about it every once in a while. He sat facing a corridor, his back to the wall behind him. With his funky headphones on, he would occasionally sway his upper-body to the beat of the music blasting in his ears. Every now and then, he would drop his shoulders back and go into a full-body stretch. Sometimes he would pick up his phone, turn it on and then turn it back off. Despite the many distractions, he seemed to be partly focused on the laptop in front of him. He was captivated by the digital display being portrayed by his metal friend. He was typing. With every passing second, his speed would increase, and he would go up to a limit of 70 words per minute, and then slow down. He would shift back, go through his distractive rituals and then start again. It was a monotonous cycle, going back and forth.

What was he doing there, what was he typing? Why was he sitting there? Why was he typing?

The very questions that haunt this writers’ mind.

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