Workday

If I were you, if you were me

This life is nothing to be ashamed of. That's what you'd tell me. Maybe that's even what you'd tell yourself if you were me.

It's not perfect. It's not what you wanted. You're not what, where, or who you thought you'd be, but on paper there's nothing wrong with it. Maybe that's what you'd say.

Work is steady and dependable. The bills get paid, without final notices or overdraft fees. You keep your expenses low. Your needs minimal. It's not much, but it's enough, you'd say to yourself, or maybe it's just what you'd say to me.

By all accounts you've got it good. Better than most, actually. That's what you'd probably tell me, or at least what you'd tell yourself if you were me.

But, if you were me, you'd know. You'd see.

The grind, the grit, the coarse abrasion. The scuffs and scratches over every surface of your being. The scouring against all your layered protections, all your outer defenses, your epidermis, your skin.

If you were me, you'd take a minute longer. You'd look a little closer. Then you'd really notice. That as you scrape yourself across the parking lot of your office building every morning, there's a little less of you left each day.

Maybe it's something in the water. Something in the asphalt or air. You'd tell yourself it's nothing. It's all in your head, you'd say. But, if you were me, you'd know, you'd see, that there's less of you now than there was before the day before.

Get a good grip. Bear down harder. Move with the grain. That's what you'd try to say.

Change your perspective. Change the way you look at things. Try to see it differently. You'd force a smile, you'd grit your teeth, and that's what you'd try to tell yourself if you were me.

But if you were me, you'd have already started to notice that there's even less of you left by the time you make it to the door.

One hand on the handle, the other reaching for a way to let go.

It's not the tender wear of erosion. It's something mechanical and relentless. It's resistance and tension. A friction proportionate to the load. An aching back and forth. A metallic push and pull.

The handle turns a spindle. The door closure extends it's arm. It gasps and gives up as it hinges. Energy stored and discharged.

It's such a strange structure, you'd say to yourself, this amalgamation of metal and melted sand. Something amorphous and unwieldy turned rigid, framed in by something that neither bends nor bows. If you were me you'd know to see it as a warning. There's less of you left when you enter, and even less of you left when you leave.

It won't be like this forever, you'd assure me. It's only temporary, you'd say. It's just until I find something better. Just until I get back on my feet. It's how you'd soothe yourself if you were me. But if you were me, you'd know, you'd see...

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