If You Could Erase the Past

Elias

12 years. That's how long I have been at this place. 12, stupid, years. What have I done? What difference have I made? They try so hard to make the workplace fun, exciting, welcoming, but what's the point if nothing you accomplish matters? 12 years of typing away on a keyboard for a sense of achievement that comes only from a number, not from any kind of merit of your own. Is there any point in trying to live if you can't make a lasting impact? Leave your name forever on the trophy of history? Fuffil some kind of purpose, have someone remember who you are, none of that is possible if we all work toward arbitrary goals that mean nothing like...

12 whole, long, tedious, interminable years. I was hired at 20. I am now 32, and all I've done is type away at improving battery life for smartwatches, language translations for Android apps, or for fucks sake any kind of Large Language 'Artificial Intelligence.'

I need to get out.

For 12 years of my life I've sat semi-content in those fancy office chairs and mini-kitchens, but how long can I wait to be useful, to do something important, to make something groundbreaking.

How long will I wait for reprieve.

~

I have quit. Finally, I quit. And now I can spend my time doing something that's finally useful. Something that will leave an impact on the world. Finally, I'm done wasting my time.

Although by technicality you could say that I'm still wasting my time right now, scribbling in a tiny brown notebook, distracting myself from the task at hand. It's night, with the moon shining through my one window, lighting up my desk with a faint white glow. My computer is off, as it's far too late to try and write any useful code, but I'm still awake, writing down verses no one will read. It's a small brown notebook with my name on it, and it's been almost completely filled with poetry. I've been writing in it since 1 year into my relationship with Melanie. Every poem is different, and it's not as if I'm an artist, but everything in the book means something to me. 

I think back to the moon. The sun gives us light, it lets us see in the day and lets us power our lives to move forward. The moon's light is merely a reflection of the sun's, a fraction of what it wants to be. But it still lights our way in the times too dark to see, when we are meant to be asleep, unconscious, the moon lets us know we can still rely on our eyes.

I scribble some of those thoughts down, adding a few rhymes and changing almost every word. 

I try to force my mind back to my project, nothing will come of senseless poetry. But as I look at my workspace, simple, neat, minimalist, organized, with every pen in its place and every speck of dust brushed off, I can't bring myself to turn the computer back on. Filling the quiet night with artificial light.

I miss Melanie.

She would be proud of me for quitting. Every time I complained she spouted the idea, tired of hearing me complain about something I could change. Lying on the couch, her head upside-down as she rolled her eyes at me when I sat down at my perfect desk, her belongings scattered haphazardly around her, no system about it. It drove me crazy. But so did she. And I loved her anyway.

~

"Elias!" This is the first word spoken to me in weeks. I lower my head, hoping to walk right by, just trying to get home before I forget the lines of code swimming in my mind. But the perpetrator insists on stopping me to try and make a meager attempt at 'small talk.' he looks like someone I used to work with. His eyes are questioning, eyebrows scrunched together, lips pursed into a thin line. He's concerned, according to his face and body language. I feel slightly insulted. I must look insane.