Sisyphus in the Cubicle

    2 AM. I’m staring at my computer screen, rewriting the same work report for the 17th time. My coffee’s gone cold, and the lipstick stain on the cup looks like a sad smile. The office is quiet except for the buzzing lights and my keyboard clicks. Another rejected project. Another rock rolling back down the hill.

They say hard work pays off, but my life feels like a broken vending machine—I keep putting in coins, but nothing comes out. My coworker joked last week: “This pizza slice is my overtime pay, this soda is my rent, and this napkin? That’s my future plans.” We laughed, but it hurt.

    Everyone’s running the same race. Wake up, work, check emails, sleep, repeat. My phone’s full of reminders: “Finish presentation,” “Call the doctor,” “Gym at 7.” But the gym’s been closed for months, and my yoga mat’s collecting dust. It’s like being hungry at a buffet—everything’s right there, but I’m too tired to reach.

    Last Tuesday, it rained so hard I hid in a convenience store. Watching raindrops race down the window, I remembered how I used to draw cartoons in school notebooks—just because it made me happy. No deadlines, no bosses. The next morning, I didn’t go to work. I sat at the park watching ducks instead. For the first time in years, I noticed clouds shaped like dinosaurs.

    My friend says: “Maybe happiness isn’t about reaching the top, but about finding better shoes for the climb.” Now I try small things—counting street cats on my way to work, buying ice cream for the security guard. Yesterday, I caught myself dancing badly to 90s music while fixing another broken spreadsheet. And you know what? It didn’t make the work easier… but I didn’t hate it either.

    We’re all pushing rocks. Some days they crush us. Other days, we notice wildflowers growing in the cracks. As I turn off my computer tonight, I hear kids laughing downstairs. Their game makes no sense, but their joy echoes through the parking lot—and for a moment, my rock feels lighter.