I am here
and I am a dreamer.
My eyes are getting heavy. The air conditioner in front of me keeps running at thirty degrees, nonstop. It’s too warm.
Working from eight to six without pay doesn’t sound good, I know. But I’m not really doing much. I’m here to observe, to drift in and out of conversations, to perform something that resembles a role.
My job is to exist.
Gladly, it’s only for a week. I can endure it. It’s not something worth complaining about. Perhaps I’m not here willingly, and yet, there’s a strange pleasure in it. Being here, in a factory somewhere in Turkey. Meeting people I wouldn’t otherwise meet. Slipping into this corporate persona. Putting on my Dr Martens like high heels. Smiling when I don’t mean it. Nodding like I care.
I spend most of my time observing people, and I like it. I pay attention to how quickly they shift between emotions.
About an hour ago, a man, probably in his mid-twenties, was standing right in front of me. He was thin, with darker skin, a charming smile and a slightly awkward sense of style. He looked as if he was about to cry. He had just stepped out of a tense conversation with his manager. You could tell something had not gone well.
My first reaction was to feel sorry for him. Or at least I assumed that I should. But then another thought followed: it probably would not be that hard for him to move on from this. It is not a particularly kind thought. Still, it felt honest. I’ve observed that the most crucial rule of this work life is not to dwell on the past. Five minutes ago was five minutes ago.
Saying ‘hi’ and ‘bye’ in a moment to that guy, I turned back to my desk, right in front of the air conditioner. To do what? I don’t know. I look at the blank screen, reading a lot of Substack essays and answering some mail from friends. It's time to live in my own reality. In my mind I’m an independent writer in a shared office. I’m working on my next book project right fucking now.
My eyes are getting heavy. I’ve just switched off the air conditioner. The girls in my compartment looked at me with a kind of quiet relief, as if they were thanking me without saying anything.
Later, I’ll take the shuttle to the city centre, buy something simple for dinner, and watch cable TV, since there is no Wi-Fi where I stay. I’ll probably spend some time on my iPad and study a bit of French.
For a moment, I believe maybe this is my version of a simple life. Or it’s just a silent acceptance of fate. 40 years of working in the office, dying right after retirement, probably unhappy. Anyway, no need to show how afraid I am to my biggest enemy, capitalism.
I won’t stop myself from jumping into my dreamland. Closing my eyes, the next step appears in my mind.
A stone house somewhere in the mountains. Somewhere northern. A few chickens, maybe three. A cow. Two cats, three dogs. A small garden for my vegetables. Gatherings around trees, acceptance from villagers, happy faces, having guests from around the world, writers, painters, thinkers, friends, and family.
And a chimney.
Oh, of course, a pen and some paper.
Yet again, I do like living in my own reality. Don’t I?
