Today starts like yesterday. It starts like the day before yesterday, and the several days before that.

The chiming of an alarm bell alerts my body to attention, invoking a physical reaction ingrained from years of routine.

Beneath me, the dingy mattress creaks in sharp, shrill protests. I ignore its pitiful whining, even though I know it endures the suffocating weight of my body every night.

The tap in my bathroom sink, rusted from disuse, resists my efforts to turn the handle. I ignore its futile protests, even though it endures the mould and mildew that creeps along its insides.

When I step onto the morning train an hour later, the weary floor lets out a quiet groan. I ignore its resigned acceptance, even though I know it has endured countless beatings from rush hour.

The rest of my morning is spent in a dull stupor, blurred from the mundanity of each task.

The next time a glimpse of clarity returns, I am inside my office. Somebody is attempting to speak to me.

Almost immediately, I recognise that something is wrong. Something is different from the pre-established routine.

Their mouth is moving rapidly, forming complex sounds that do not carry any meaning. It rushes out as a nonsensical string of vowels and consonants; it initially appears coherent but lacks any true substance.

I swivel my head left, then right. My ears strain to catch the words, but their efforts are made in vain. In confusion, I open my mouth to ask for help. But by the time I have looked up, the other person is already striding away.

My eyes sweep the surrounding area, locking onto a worker who appears to have just entered. When they notice, their legs suddenly carry them away in a direction opposite to me. Every other pair of clouded eyes in the office are suddenly looking elsewhere.

Despite this jarring impediment in communication, everything else seems to be functioning as usual. My desk is the same as I left it last — the pens are sorted in containers, the keyboard is tucked neatly underneath the desktop monitor; the clipboard contains all the appropriate tasks assigned to me. There is a lightbulb hanging above the orderly space, identical to its brethren on every other desk. It has no switch; somebody turns on all the lights when they decide that it is appropriate to do so.

I shoot a furtive glance around at the workers on either side of me. The blinding light from their computers shine on their unblinking faces. My body moves to conform. The chair quietly squeaks under my weight, betraying my momentary deviance from the expected standard.

Now that their words are stripped of meaning, I find it difficult that these people have lives of their own. Do they lead monotonous, repetitive lives like me? Or is everybody living in carefree bliss, and selfish introspection is the secret to happiness?

Perhaps that isn't the only factor. I am beginning to believe that I am missing something crucial. Something that will be the key to solve the cipher that everybody is speaking. Had it always been missing?

My computer whirrs to life when I press the power button. It is not too dissimilar from me, in hindsight. It works like a loyal dog, only to receive an empty food bowl at the end of the day.

The login screen cheerfully pops up in front of me on the monitor. I instinctively reach for the keyboard to type in my login; however, another adversary stands in my way. The letters on the keyboard are ever-shifting foreign symbols, each one made of twisting lines that threaten to escape their physical restraints.

I reach for a pen and paper to substitute for this development. The fountain pen is elegant, though much of its beauty is lost when it is held in my clawed, unsophisticated hand. Eagerly, the pen anticipates meeting its fated companion — the canvas that turns its unrefined ink into meaningful ideas, thoughts, dreams.

But it suffers the same fate as the keyboard and the words that tumble out of human mouths. The ink, glossy and black, does not dry at all. Beautiful, longing streaks of black ink run down its surface. It looks as though the paper is crying. I wish I could wipe the tears away, but I am afraid of ruining the paper further.

Is it mourning the loss of its purpose? Or is it lamenting the lost meaning in the ink that runs down its face?

My lips twitch, as if they want to apologise for ruining the paper. But I know there is no point. The strange encryption of everybody's words will not allow me to express my feelings. And yet, the office workers surrounding me seem to have no issue with completing their own tasks.

It is now that I realise that the world has excluded me from the lives of others. I am not even a measly brushstroke in the grand painting of life. I am the water used to clean the paintbrush, murky and dulled from use. Colours swirl together beautifully on the canvas, yet my poor replication of this display results in a hideous brown mess. The final artwork stands resplendent in its vibrant glory, and I will be all the worse because of it.

The chiming of a bell resonates across the expansive office.

Immediately, the employees around me stand at attention. They have their packed briefcases already in hand, their desks wiped clean for tomorrow morning.

Belatedly, I rise to imitate the creatures surrounding me.

This workplace did not usually have a bell to signal the end of the day. The lilting, harmonious sound brings forth memories of my school years, wrapped in a rose-coloured film of joy and hope for the future.

The sound of the bell fades away, disintegrating into meaningless shards of silence.

Every employee, including me, files out of the office in an orderly fashion. I split from the horde to enter the underground subway station. Here, there is a ferocious human stampede that stands as a powerful force of nature. If not for the strange clicks and growls emanating from their mouths, it would have been admirable.

Each body caught in the tide loses its individuality. Their only purpose is to act as a medium for the larger force. Nothing else matters in their eyes. Even if I were to scream at the top of my lungs, the torrent would continue in its unrelenting pace. In hindsight, I suppose that believing otherwise seems selfish.

A shove from an unknown source causes my leg to bang against the metal railing. My head stays bowed. I know that they are long gone, swept away by the raging tides of the swarm. Beneath the thin fabric of my pants, I know that the skin on my thigh is darkening into a deep purple. But strangely, I feel no pain throbbing at its source.

Instead, my gaze lingers on the hard steel of the railing. Its function is obvious at a first glance: a railing barring the edge of a chasm only serves one purpose. And yet, despite the apparent intent of the railing's placement, it is too short to prevent anybody from falling. If one were truly committed, it would be an exceedingly simple task to step over.

A bell chimes, signalling the arrival of a train.

I am not a committed person. The metal stays partially embedded in my thigh, leaving a marked dent in my clothing.

When the doors of the train slide open, it welcomes the torrents that pour in from the built-up flood. When the doors of the train slide closed, the metal frames are unforgiving and unmoving, resisting the pleas of the desperate.

There is no clock on the train, nor is there a watch on my wrist. Regardless, I count the seconds until the bell chimes again, and I return home.

My front door greets me with a cold stare as I pull out my keys. I try to ignore the well-deserved scrutiny that I am placed under. After all, its service is only acknowledged by knocking harshly on its face.

I push past the aggrieved servant and enter my small apartment. It feels as though I have only left this bubble mere seconds ago.

Looking around, I inspect the furniture as they shift uncomfortably under my gaze. The dining table attempts to hide its scars of misuse by shying away in the shadows. The flickering lightbulb is an accomplice to its disobedience, submerging the area into darkness more often than it performs its intended purpose.

In my routine check, I spot a visitor that has ventured into my domain.

Lying innocently on my desk is a gun.

The object is more beautiful than the most striking bouquet of flowers. I imagine that the bullets, nestled comfortably in their slots, will bloom in earnest when they leave the chamber.

Upon the side of the barrel, a series of engraved letters greet my eyes. They are like little toy soldiers, stoic and unmoving. It is because of their discipline that I can see them in stark clarity.

Unexpectedly, they spell out a familiar word.

T A L K.

I have just barely finished blinking, and yet my hands already move to a familiar position.

The gun is already cocked and ready to fire.

A bell chimes. I am not sure where it comes from.