Have you ever wondered if it's possible for an ordinary person to live and be happy at the same time? Half of the day is consumed by work, the other by sleep. And if you remove one, death catches up before long. Regardless of the reason, an adult can't afford to be idle forever, even if they desperately want to be. What can one really accomplish in those few hours between work and sleep, when you still need to stop by the supermarket, clean the apartment, and cook dinner? Of course, the majority end up finding happiness by adjusting their desires to fit within those limits. But is that really right? I don't know. At least not for me.
As I got older, I realized that socializing drained me, eating away at the few free minutes I had to do what I truly wanted. Every time someone tried to start a conversation with me, I had to force myself to respond appropriately. On top of that, I had to come up with topics so the conversation wouldn't die after my reply. But the truth remained: all my efforts felt like an act. I couldn't be open with others—in other words, I couldn't be myself. I had to adjust to those around me. And when I finally left all that behind, I felt a sense of freedom I had always longed for.
Ah, right, usually this is the part where people introduce themselves, isn't it? Though I doubt anyone cares to know the name of a plain person like me. I'm not one in a billion—just one of billions. One of the people you pass while riding public transit to work or school, one of those standing ahead of you or behind you in line at the register. Not someone whose face you'd see on a movie screen or in a magazine. Not someone whose manga you'd pick up to read, but more like the one you'd stand beside while waiting for a new chapter of a popular series to be released. Ordinary. Let's be honest: your eyes rarely linger on someone boring.
I lay across my desk, occasionally shifting my head in my arms. I had sacrificed precious hours of sleep in hopes of writing a new chapter of my novel. But every time an idea struck me and I picked up my pencil, it felt like my brain was being wiped clean. Maybe it sounds silly, but the story I was writing was like a diary to me. Putting my thoughts and dreams into fiction was thrilling. Especially since I made myself the protagonist. It was sad to realize that "ordinary" had embedded itself so deeply in my subconscious that even in a fantasy action novel, the main character turned out boring and unremarkable. Then again, who cares what's written in it if no one else will ever read it but me? The answer is obvious.
When I looked up at the clock, it was already 6 a.m. In three hours, I was supposed to be back in my office chair, staring at a monitor, testing yet another system for bugs. And as everyone knows, bugs are always there, because "exhaustive testing is impossible." Sometimes it felt like nothing in the environment I'd chosen was truly attainable.
I got up from the desk and went to the kitchen to boil water for a cup of coffee. Not wasting time, I headed to the bathroom to wash up. I decided not to turn on the light, leaving the door slightly ajar so the sunlight could gently illuminate the room. I didn't want to start my morning with a horror show—those dark circles under my eyes made me look like Sadako.
After washing up under a stream of cold water, I returned to the kitchen. The kettle had boiled, and I poured the hot water into a prepared cup. Placing it on the windowsill, I sat down opposite, stirring the coffee slowly. Closing my eyes, I inhaled its invigorating aroma, trying to absorb enough energy to face the day.
I pulled a cigarette from the pack by the window, flicked my lighter, and took a drag. The smoke drifted through the open window, lingering slightly in the room, mixing with the scent of coffee.
It was mid-summer outside. Back in my school days, it was probably my favorite time of year—for obvious reasons: summer break. I've always had trouble dealing with extreme temperatures. When I was younger, air conditioning either didn't exist or was too expensive for regular people, so summers felt truly hot.
Sleepy dog owners wandered back and forth on the streets, walking their pets. I yawned instinctively when I saw a passerby barely stifling one. Well, guess I did it for you.
A long time ago—I don't even remember when exactly—I had a dog too. Fluffy, with big kind brown eyes and a happily wagging tail whenever she saw me. She lived at my grandmother's house in the countryside, and we only saw each other during summers. It amazed me that despite long separations, she always recognized me. This 180-pound bear would come running, knock me over, and lick me from head to toe.
As I revisit those memories, I can almost smell the farm and freshly cut grass. Every morning was filled with birdsong, echoing from all directions like Jericho's trumpets. The old, rickety house always seemed like it would collapse the moment a bad wolf tried to blow it down. The endless plot of land hid countless secrets and treasures. I, armed with a stick I found on the ground, roamed through overgrown vegetation like a pioneer.
But all happiness is fleeting, and eventually, a merciless wave of time washes it away. First, unable to adapt to city life, our cat—whom we had also taken in at the village—died. Then, not long after, the dog passed too. It's sad to realize that neither lived to see me graduate from elementary school; neither made it past age five. Maybe it was my fault. Yeah, probably. Even when you think you've given your pet enough love, you realize after they're gone that it wasn't nearly enough. Of course, everyone has their own view on human-animal relationships. Then again, have I ever really cared what others think about that?
That was the first and last time in my life I cried so much for someone. Maybe during that time, I used up all the tears I was born with. Even as the days ahead brought more bad news, the only thing I could do was lower my eyes and smile bitterly.
Naturally, my first instinct was to spend every free moment with loved ones. But like happiness, each new failed relationship only narrowed my perspective further. Maybe they just never became truly close to me? Maybe.
"People don't change," someone once told me. Looking back at who I was then and who I am now, if those words described anyone, it wasn't me. At some point, this city... no, this whole world seemed to lose everything that made it interesting to me. And like a desperate soul searching for Nemo, I sank deeper and deeper into the dark ocean.
Where were these thoughts wandering while I sat at my desk, head bowed over a blank page?
I wonder if it was the lack of sleep that caused this flood of memories?
Having finished my coffee and realizing I was running late, I left the cup in the sink and hurried to get dressed. One benefit of my current job was that no one cared about your appearance. Which meant, technically, you could show up to the office in a bathrobe. Just kidding. But if the office were next door, maybe I'd actually try it.
I had never really thought about what "darkness" meant to me. Probably the absence of light. But at night, I always felt more alive than during the day. Maybe I was like a solar panel—sluggish during the day, charging up for the night?
Standing by the front door with one sneaker on, I suddenly felt the world around me grow dim. Never in my life had my heart pounded so fast, its echo ringing in my temples. Beads of sweat rolled down my forehead, which wasn't surprising considering it was mid-summer. Hunched over and grimacing, I clutched my chest, struggling to breathe. Blinded by terrible pain, I coughed violently, tasting a bitter metallic tang in my mouth.
Despite its small size, the human heart has the power to pump between 4.7 and 5.7 liters of blood per minute, beating about 70 times. That's around 19,080 liters and 252,000 beats per hour. So what happens when this amazing organ suddenly fails? Right. If the heart is like a server, I must've encountered error 503: the server is unable to handle requests.
The last thing my glazed eyes saw was a painfully familiar silhouette. But I stubbornly refused to remember who it belonged to. I reached out toward it, as if silently pleading for help. Yet here, in the silence and hidden darkness, the figure merely smiled faintly and faded away as my body collapsed toward the floor.