The Man's a Mess

Eleven thirty in the evening, in the office listening to Matchbox Twenty is a wasted man. This man wants to go home and sleep, but he has so many things to do, so many things to finish.

The man's a mess.

He's thinking of a girl. He wanted to be at her home hours ago, but deadlines, paperwork, and other project-related programming hinder him from doing so.

Inside, he's angry, but hopeless at the same time.

He has so many other dreams. He can imagine climbing aboard a Formula Three car, fully sponsored by a multi-million dollar conglomerate. He also imagines living in a home with a happy family, with him as the father of three kids.

Six minutes later, the man is so lonely, he wanted to give up.

A minute later, he thinks he's just tired.

He stares at a piece of paperwork that should have been processed hours ago. Procedure prevented him from performing the task himself. Another group of people, gone hours ago, are the ones allowed to perform the task.

But he can, damn it, he can!

If so, there would have been a lighter burden for the man to carry home. Now, he's clouded in frustration, for what could have been finished by now had to wait until tomorrow.

And the days are running out like grains of sand on one's fingertips.

Now, he sits alone, companions long gone.

The man's a mess, but he has a mission, and in his mind, he strides on.

Fuckers.