Paperwork. That’s easy. That’s a must isn’t it? With this I’ll be able to fit in society. I am now able to provide for my family with my own hard work and money. It’s an occupation that everyone glorifies rather than being a certified neet. That’s an accomplishment.
“Miss Sofea, get back to work.” One of my co-workers said, bringing me back to reality.
Here I am, in front of my work desk. With papers to sign and documents to fill. This is a prestigious job and I should be honored to be offered such an opportunity.
Document after document. Paper after paper. It’s not tiring.
I absolutely can do this. This is what my family wanted me to be. I’ll be able to survive in this world by working here.
“Miss Sofea!” My co-worker rang me “Bring those papers here!” He demanded.
“Absolutely!” I replied.
Grabbing what was on my desk, I ran from my seat to him. Handing it out with a smile but what I have received in return was just a glare. He snatched it out of my grasp and simply gave a 2 second look before criticizing my work. Some were understandable and some were just because I couldn’t reach his high expectations of me.
“You’ve graduated, majoring in literature,” He uttered with his eyebrows furrowed “Why are you working here?” He asked.
“Just to try something new.” I smiled.
A small sigh left his mouth after saying “Are you sure you’re not doing this for the pay?”
I simply shook my head in response and went back to my desk with my eyes glued to the floor.
This was the right decision, right? My passion is just a hobby, I can just hide it away. This job is my dream.
Most people say working an overnight shift is a simple task for a rookie. It’s because they depend on me that I can do it. How many days has it been since my first time working here? My co-workers are gone and they left me with their work. Is it because that they trust me enough to have left me with such a strong responsibility?
My fingers continued to type, finishing the report that was due tomorrow. Eyes glued tight to the screen, fingers moved non-stop as my position remains still. Do I need a break? My hands are getting tired yet I’m still moving them.
There’s no one here but me. Will it always be like this for the remaining years? Will I be alone? These thoughts has to stop. Maybe that could help.
Stopping my hands from continuing further on my assigned duties, I began to stretch my crooked limbs with each movement resulting a sound. This is absolutely normal for a rookie like me to feel sore in every part of my limbs. My hand began to reach the insides of my bag, searching for a small notebook that I bring everywhere I go to. The book that I write my poems. A garbage of a hobby is what they might say, but it’s still my hobby.
Gently opening the book like it was a sacred piece of my soul, I read them all. The poems where I wrote had themes and words that were centered among the emotions I felt during my rough times. It’s amazing how beautiful a creation can be on paper when you can only see it as a toxic scar in your mind.
No I need to conceal this passion. It will stain my career.
Tears. They’re streaming again. Why? Why are these tears flowing right now? My fingers felt my wet cheeks. Looking down at where the tears drop, I noticed something.
My hands, knees and feet. Every part of my limbs. They didn’t belong to me. No.
I was attached.
Strings are connected to me, I see them.
So much of them. To where the strings may lead?
Of course, to my Puppeteer.
Again. These same movements. Typing on my keyboard to finish the workload that has been piled up higher than any building. My ears were always opened to hear them criticizing what I could not do. My restricted movements due to the hours and hours I sacrificed for this job.
At the very least your family is at ease. You finally can put food on the table for them. They’re not struggling. Your friends are finally proud to call you their friends. They’re happy that you are one of them. Your friends and family are happy.
But what about me?
“Your occupation comes in first, your emotions come in second and, your passion comes in third. You cannot be selfish.” The Puppeteer whispered to my mind.
Why do I have to listen to you? It has been months and I’m tired.
“This is what I want you to be,” He whispered again.
Why are you controlling me? I’m not your servant. I’m not your puppet!
“Fool, you made me your Puppeteer.”
Those were the last words I heard from him before my limbs were being pulled by the strings to the opposite direction. I can feel my bones being separated and my skin being torn. Is he punishing me? Pain started to spread from my chest to every part of my figure. As if my heart started to give up on me. Piles of blood are seeping out from each end of my skin. I’m shattered. But the strings aren’t connected anymore. I’m free. I can write again. I don’t need to hide what I’m truly passionate about anymore. Because I can’t see the strings anymore. Those strings of my Puppeteer are not connected to me anymore. They have finally snapped.
So did my veins.
“Help! Help! There’s someone who jumped from the 20th floor! Call the ambulance! Quick!”