expectancy ; jackbum

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Was life meant to be lived this way?

He often pondered what the true ideal life was supposed to look like, and how that life was supposed to be lived out. Were there rules to living the perfect life? Was there things that needed to be done in order for it to be flawless? Did you have to live in a gorgeous house with a wife and kids, a white picket fence and a pet to take for walks on the weekends? Was there some sort of unspoken way of life that he was missing out on, one where there's no stress and only true contentness?

As he stared at the family walking down the sidewalk in front of him, babies screaming and all, he wasn't sure he believed in perfect lives. He wasn't sure of anything anymore, the only thing he knew for certain was that he had not been living the perfect life-- nor would he ever. Nor would anyone.

The walk up the stairs to the conference room was filled with silence, his leather shoes tapping the stairs in rushed sounds, hurried steps leading upwards. The ticking clock in his mind warned that he was late, scolding him for staying up too long the night before, aimlessly sitting on his balcony. He had just sat and stared, glass of his companion liqour in hand swirling gracefully, eyes set on nothingness. His mind was set on even less until the hands of his watch read three a.m. Now, only four hours of sleep later, he was late to his meeting.

Rushed movements, quick steps, mumbled words.

"I apologize for being late." Was his excuse. No other words were said as he sat at the head of the table, all eyes on him. An eerie silence drowned out the room.

"Sir, this is the fifth time in the past two weeks," they've been keeping count, "has everything been alright?"

He lifted his eyes, "fine, thank you. Just having some late night ideas come about, been working late."

A few uncertain nods were seen before the topic was dropped. Conversation began, ideas being shared and listened to, voices rising and rising as usual. No one ever knew how to keep their temper, and Jaebum was beginning to lose his in his state of such little sleep. His fist clenched around his pen, jaw tightening as he listened to the others bicker so rudely, not letting eachother get any words out.

"How am I supposed to listen to you when you won't let eachother speak? I thought we were here to share ideas, are we not? All I hear is arguing, as usual."

"Well maybe if you would get here on time you would catch us in a good mood." A voice spoke up, causing his jaw to tighten to its cracking point. He set his pen down almost too slowly.

"This is my fault? It's my fault that you can't talk like adults?" His tone was jeering, too calm and too controlled, "why is everything my fault? I wasn't aware that I was a father to you all-- you children."

Another hidden voice, too coward to stand up, "I wouldn't call us children with all the rumors about you, sir."

"Rumors," he shook his head with a dead laugh, "rumors that you all spread and created. I'm the child, yet you're all playing telephone about my personal life. Here's a hint-- none of you passed along the message correctly. You all fail."

He stood from his chair, loudly slamming his briefcase closed against the table.

There was a last mumble heard, nearly inaudible, "running away like a child."