I would love to write my blog posts on notepad. The simple simplicity of not having any format. No toolbars at the top to distract from the very important words that pour out from my talented fingertips.
Sleep and work distract me from finishing this post properly.
Doctors have the worst handwriting. It’s almost like an insult. Like they want to show off that they are so smart and so busy that they just don’t have time to write legibly. Who cares about legibility when you get a chance to play GOD? Not that doctors claim they play God. Course not. That's blasphemous. Although the abundance of doctors who lack in the proper grammar skills is shocking.
Air-conditioned air wafts gradually downwards towards my table, luring my eyelids closed. The sir is dry and arid and cold. The tiny green light indicating that it’s time to slumber. At my desk. Which is perfectly acceptable provided I have no work to do.
The lack of pictures provided on this blog is starting to worry me. I always found blogs with pictures so much more entertaining and now my blog is barren of all colour save that of the text on the screen and my hideous, gloomy portrait to the right.
My mind drifts next door. Not physically. The co-joined office on the right is dark and unused. The owner. We’ll call him Mr. Paul. The owner has been absent for almost a month. There are no visible signs of struggle but something sinister lingers in the air. Yet somehow, every morning I find messages from Mr. Paul instructing me to send out letters and type out documents. It might be a sign. A code. A clue. It might also be work he’s setting me seeing as his secretary is on maternity leave.
The rubbish bin overflows with rubbish like a container that can hold no more. The lid is ajar and the contents within are given a peek of freedom. Do they wish to escape? Into this cruel harsh world where lawyers disappear and women are pregnant. If I were them I would stay safe. Safe within the plastic bin liner walls. Waiting for the cleaning lady to take me out. But out where?
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