Stairwell Existentialism

I found myself sitting alone in the office building's 26th floor stairwell this afternoon. Two floors up, I've already logged the required hours of effort. There were still things to do, yes, but I had to breathe. Not that stairwell air is much better. But at least it was quieter. And unoccupied.

Staring at that heavy fire exit door, I pondered on the meaning of life, death, afterlife (and afterdeath?). That morning, I was at the hospital for a followup consultation. I didn't have a tumor, the doctor concluded based from the test results. Although she considered that possibility two Saturdays ago. Honestly, I was ready for however it would turn out. Morbidity comes naturally to me, and I discover that it's something that people do not readily welcome about me. So I'll just leave it at that.

A part of me believes that maybe I'm really ill. I have a resident headache that dials up into a migraine and dials down to a dull throb, depending on where I am and what I'm doing. But it's always there, lurking. And there's also the lethargy I can't seem to shake off.

Maybe all this is brought about by the fact that I've not been having real meals. Sandwich bites taken in between keystrokes and mouse clicks do not seem to pass off as lunch. Nor do instant noodles pass off as breakfast.

I used to come home to dinner of real food. I'm crazy for starting with this line of thought and I know I'd just regret it later when I'm reduced to a lump of sad excuse for a human being. But I used to come home to a home. True, I used to commute for hours. But when I arrive, there will be a place setting for me at the dining table. My mother would reheat my dinner, slice me a piece of fruit, sit with me at the table and ask me about my day. A few years back when I was part of one of those high-pressured projects, I started to cry halfway through my dinner out of sheer exhaustion. My mother got so worried over me and started crying with me. She said that if she could take my burden for herself, she would. I was just so guilt-ridden for making her cry that I didn't remember what I said or if I even said anything in reply.

When I get "home" now and if I feel like eating, I bring takeout which I eat on my bed. And of course, because I am me, I spill ice tea and hot sauce on my bedsheets every now and then. Lately though, I just eat Knick Knacks or Pretzels. Or lychee-flavored nata de coco jelly. Sometimes, I just skip all the attempts and try to sleep. And of course, sleep is a luxury that my messed up mind cannot afford so easily.

Going back to that stairwell this afternoon, I was going over all these past experiences in my head and going totally existential. The fact is, I don't want to invite everyone to my sadness. It's bad enough that I'm lousy company and I reek of depression poorly camouflaged in an air of fake indifference. I don't expect people to understand - that's just asking for too much, I think. I don't even get the situation myself.

But one's thoughts can only go too far sitting on a stairwell. At some point, there are real-life things to address two floors up.