He stares in the mirror and sees some other face staring back at him, unsmiling and pale. Like moon waning night by night, he sees his slow descent to madness. Who says mundanity isn't fatal? He works day and night, dustbin under his desk always overflows with used coffee cups. Smiles and greetings so mechanical, that he wonders if he hasn't already turned into a machine.
At night he just hears whirring of AC that keeps him company like a loyal dog. Lying in bed, he thinks of to-dos and if-onlys. Cigarette between his finger burns all night long with him, dying a little moment by moment. The laptop opens, more work gets finished, appreciation mails from boss flood his inbox, week after week.
"Don't you ever sleep?"
"Hm."
"You should do something. Movies or something. Go somewhere."
"Hm. Yeah."
"Hm."
"You should do something. Movies or something. Go somewhere."
"Hm. Yeah."
He turns to work. He is immersed in work with the wrath of a warrior to destroy everything that comes in his way. Silent wrath. Wrath that destroys only him, bit by bit.
He looks in mirror to see if he is still alive, through the lines of his face, premature whites in his hair, bags under his eyes. He could be dead and he wouldn't know.
He opens the chest of his drawer to find an old yellowing letter from her, paper that has turned tender from crisp over the time. At such moments, he can seldom read the words clearly through the hazy film of tears. With a harsh striking pang of pain, his heart starts beating again.
It's then he knows he is still alive, if only there were easier ways to tell.
