I log into Destiny 2. I complete the same activities I've completed one hundred times before. I unlock guns I've used in a game I played 4 years ago. I unlock ornaments I'll never use. I do the same thing a slightly different way and don't bat an eyelid.
It's like I'm in a trance.
I answer emails. Sometimes the question is meant for me. Sometimes it's meant for me as if I was in the same role I was in a month before. I pore through spreadsheets and documents and websites. I write notes. I crack jokes about an industry obsessed with disruption but resistant to change. I do the same thing in a slightly different way and don't bat an eyelid.
It's like I'm in a trance.
I look at my phone. "No calls today, he doesn't recognise me." I think about the times my father told me I was wasting my life playing video games and reading comic books. How the best of years of my life were passing me by while I sat in front of a monitor. I think about the last time we talked and our discussion made sense. I forget to blink for a few seconds. I do the same thing in a slightly different way and don't bat an eyelid.
It's like I'm in a trance.
This isn't a rut. I can look back on the last few years and point to achievements, to meaning. I don't have to look far. This isn't about my lot in life and what I've got to give. This is about waiting. This is about the twist I know is coming that I know will break my heart. I forget to blink for a few seconds.
You'd never wish death on anyone would you? But you wouldn't want your loved ones to suffer either. I'm not just talking about those that are sick, I'm talking about those who have to see sickness take hold too. Mum looks at her best friend, searching for a gaze he can't return. Mum just wants to hear her name. Jack doesn't blink for what feels like hours.
It's like he's in a trance.
Months earlier, I stood behind Dad as he feverishly worked at a panel of locks and knobs. Nothing hides behind the locks and the knobs open no doors. Dad says he's busy when I ask how he is. Dad gestures at the floor and asks for his tool. I see a doll and a teddy bear and ask for guidance. Dad crouches to the floor and searches with me.
I look at the man who raised me and search intensely for a gaze he won't return.
