The drumming of fingers reverberated throughout the office. The man sat alone in the space meant for hundreds; drumming against the silent sorrow that nearly enveloped the room intended for drones. The fingers rode along his lifeless grey desk that housed his dreary black peripherals: two monitors, generic keyboard, and tiny mouse smaller than the length of his index finger. The rhythmic sound of boredom, turned silent as he spun in his chair. He adorned a maroon red sweater vest, atop a pale pink dress shirt tucked into midnight blue dress pants.

“Is it better to be no one but to live comfortably; or to take the chance at fame but maybe be left with nothing?” He mumbled to himself, his morning gruff voice prevalent at the dawn work hours. The question was meaningless, but meaningless questions can at least waste time.

He stop his slow spinning and opened a blank word document.

“What is your time valued at? When you get paid by the hour sitting in the graveyard of an office you accept that your time is worth that much. Contemplate the question for a second and ask, why? 24.65 an hour, that’s what they pay me here. Is it all worth it? What am I giving away, what am I missing out on because of the 24.65 an hour? I’m an economist, it’s my job to use assets to the best of their ability, to say that what I propose is the most effective use of the object. Why do I not do the same with my own time?”

His gaze fell to the corner of his deck, there sat a picture of himself a girl, both smiling, jubilant as the sunset behind them.

“It’s because of her isn’t it?” He typed. He didn’t write more, instead deleted the document without thinking twice.

His last generation phone held in the worn case buzzed with notifications. A chatroom he was a part of, bursting with life as everyone talked about a mind numbing amount of differing topics.

“Hey, anyone seen Ash?” A chatter, Ahra, asked.

“What’s up? Need me for something?” Ash typed onto his phone.

“Someone asked how many different incomplete stories you have?

Everyone at one point in time pretends to be someone they are not. In the online era it only became infinitely easier to do so.

“Around 50.”Ash replied with a sigh. But what happens when you no longer have time to play and the life you avoided caught up?

“I have two hours until the next meeting, let’s work on writing.” Do you continue to be the character, or do you lay down and accept their death?

“Let’s start the story with dread and not action, go against the norms. Maybe that will not be nearly as exciting, but to make yourself stand out, might as well do something to fill the cliché hollows.

This is the story of me, maybe you will hate this fictitious story and I will not judge you for doing so. If you cannot tell I find it dreadful too. Don’t fret though, the dread will turn to joy as all stories should; leaving the reader with satisfaction as the characters find their happy end. A book is a place of escapism, a slice of life story meant to bring a sense of vicarious pleasure as the character ends their depression. That should be enough author exposition, let’s get right into it.”

Ash didn’t look at all happy, instead empty as he stared at the screen. “Another story, never to be completed,” He admitted as he saved the document, ‘A dreary Life with fictitious Escapism’.