The Job

The Job

My eyes opened and stared at the white ceiling, piercing through the cold air, foggy and uncooperative. Every movement and thought brought me back to life and felt heavy, burdensome and awfully labored concerning the necessary preparations needed to be on my way. The repetitiveness was palpable as if it were being stirred in a cauldron of unwelcome familiarity, each day exponentially faster, every minute increasingly worse. And then quite suddenly, and with usual expectation, the smallest thought of enthusiasm grabbed my beleaguered mind out of its melancholy. This was what it took to remove myself from the morning malaise; the smallest enthusiasm, and before I could comprehend that tiny thought, I arose from my bed and embraced the process. I struggled through each part; finding an unwrinkled shirt, and if I failed, ironing a previously warn one (and this makes it all the worse), choosing a tie, hastily shaving what little hair I had on my twenty-five year old face, combing the night’s insomnia from my hair, and tying my unkempt and severely ignored shoes. All of this, of course, for the unfettered goal of walking out that door, that imperious, intimidating door. With faint satisfaction, I looked at my reflection and momentarily pondered my routine, thinking to myself this was the rest of my life. My face was straight and unemotional as I began my walk down the steps toward that door. I realized in that moment, staring at that door, its monotonous existence held a much larger, metaphorical purpose. All doors represented the beginning and end of every journey, even in my current state of being. It was both the beginning of my day and its end. And so, I grabbed its cold handle and opened it slowly and deliberately. I walked outside into the frigid dawn, closed it behind me and twisted the lock to the right until a familiar click signaled the safety of my home. For today, the job was done.