The Terrible Writings of Quentin Montejo
Serial experiments on a fallen archangel who only wanted to regain just one wing back
Free of the World. Rain worshipper. Hermit. Tormented mind. Caged spirit. Defiant and eternal enemy of Destiny and Fate. Poet. Scientist. Artist. Daydreamer. He who laughs. Slacker. Sleeper. Romancer of wings and clouds. Fiercely independent. He who is ponderous. Games and anime junkie. Four eyes. Caveman. Nature-lover. He who doesn't think that hard. Non-smoker. Music-junkie. Counter of blessings. Guitar-hugger. He who simply wants what everybody else would like to be in this world and the next -- to be happy.
Friday, August 11, 2006
He looks at all the lit up computer workstations on the floor, but only a handful of people are still present on a Friday night.
This place always felt like home to him, he thought. Eight years of blood, sweat, and tears. From the most blissful days of a promising development project, to the most soul-crushing experiences on bad superiors and nasty deadlines.
He've seen it all but ... he can't remember any feeling or sentimentality. The only thing left are scars.
Eight years. A lot of time to see people come and go. Those that left him with lasting impressions will be forever remembered and thought upon for more years to come.
Does he even felt love for this place? His job? His career?
He always gets thoughts like this every now and then. Why do the things he do? Dedication and passion only come to him in seasons. Unlike other colleagues who breathe their work. To him, these are all just means to an end.
And that's where he is troubled. What was his end?
He would have liked it if he could at least give out a pained expression on his face. Anything to signify that this is all for something. Then he realized his curse. He has no ability to sentimentalize his past, and now, he can't even design his future.
Perhaps that's what his situation is right now. Hopelessly trapped in today. Right to the very second of each breath. Quite a narrow existence to an already short span of life.
Suddenly, he hears the familiar beeping of the electronic bundy clock, announcing the departure of another employee.
In an hour it's time to go.
To the place where he sleeps and watches cable. But it's not a place he calls 'home'. Much the way he treats the office he is now looking at -- without sentimentality or affection. The workstation he works reflects that way of thinking.
It has no decorations, no pictures ... nothing of that 'personal' touch. Just a pile of papers stacked up without organization or thought. Perhaps the unruliness is the only personal touch he could give it, and not even of a conscious effort at that.
He chuckled to himself. He felt like Dr. House.
Not only in the unfeeling way, but also the way people believed in him. An even more limiting factor to a reputation he never even desired to build for himself.
He then felt his head grow heavy again.
"Time to stop all this thinking", he thought.
So he went back to his workstation, played Sitti on his headphones, and blogged all of this as an entry.
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