was sorting out some desk clutter when i saw a piece of paper, folded in half, thrice. it revealed some gibberish i wrote pre-interview at an FMCG company 3 years ago when i was 20. this helped me diffuse anxiety. in this particular stream of consciousness, there was a lot of reference to my pre-interview at ogilvy. the memory of ogilvy’s red pantone 485 consumed me like shit.
the elevator sounds sound like drips, like raindrops, like it’s raining in the lobby. not cacophonous at all. maybe bothersome to the man who types contemptuously at his old machine. drip, drip, drip. (less ding, ding, ding)
this is a different kind of weight. the god of ennui lurks in this small hallway. i can see no reds except for thin lines here and there. none of the sanguine field of carpet, saffron wall of wall. just nondescript marble partnered with wooden 90s architecture.
my mouth yearns to talk. my mind needs to by stimulated by conversation.
to crane the neck. to mouth an “ahh”. to continue this dumb exercise. i guess to speak with the self is enough.
then a woman in pearls comes by. but she does not sit with me. she sits with a man – her father?
lazy jaw, dry mouth, nape as cold as the gate 6 cement. also a slight pain in the abdomen. i try to fight these physical sensations which converge into a midpoint – drowsiness.
drip, drip, drip. smash, smash, smash. no howls. just beats with notes. notes in cryptic beat. which lull me, which induce the sleepy feeling. i do not sit on a red block, but on a blue very uncomfortable couch. hugging my butt. but not quite my abdomen in pain. i wish it would.
i am not priming myself properly.
so it shall ensue:
confidence, poise, wit, composure.