Office culture is a mirror, into the future. And possibly yours. I see fat people. Pushing forty, soon pushing daisies. I hear husbands saying I already have a wife, I dont have to try hard with her anymore. I see the decay.
See the smartest and brightest. Good clothes. Quality. Expensive, even. But ill fitted. Omega on his wrist. 30+ bottles of single malt at home. But unopened. No one to share with. Single. But not a hunter, dater, or lover. Old. And not a wife, or kids. Nothing.
I see the smartest whip. Can solve anything. But no kids. GF already has one, and theyre old, not gonna try no more. His bloodline will perish. Watf. Smart genes. LOST. Love for adventure. That Vietnam roadtrip, from top to bottom of the country, left undone. His Piano at home catches dust.
I see yung guns left broken after they received mixed signals from a girl they like, but they didnt dare to gamble, push, bet, take the risk. Always bet. Then your hand improves, with information. I see handsome boys. But no posture. We could attacks clubs together, go hard.
I see grown men, with almost no muscle tonation. I see burnout. I hear low quality compulsory social watercooler talk. No one reads. I see a kid, thinking of settling down with his GF. He aint 30. I see a man with 3 kids, but with a wonderful smile, Always positive, bright.
That flirty cute intern. But has a BF and when asked what do u do whole weekend, she doesnt even mention what theyre doing, and says she isnt doing anything interesting. And then gazes into my eyes.
Two flirty women, at the company drink, no BF, and no one approaches.
I see people thinkin theyre the shit. But they wouldnt keep their own, on the Streets, in a fight. Heck, 100 ‘men’ on the floor, I can take em all. I see no sauce, just jabronis. I see no style. Just attire. I see informality. Slacks, sneakers. Come on.
I hear people saying Fury youre silent. Need to talk more, be more assertive, mingle more. But I rarely see value, or substance, I dont feel that vibe. People checking their phones, waiting for that final hour on Friday. That guy writing threads on his laptop. Meta.
That old man who clocked in twenty years, and it went by too soon, Always with a smile tho, piercing eyes, and perfectly groomed in a grey suit, matchin his hair. He once said, “Wish I’d done that triathlon.” Learns Spanish now. For big projects.
Mostly I see sad eyes. Some empty. Some tired. But mostly lonely, sad eyes. I read a lot, but now I read eyes. Like books, they tell volumes and sagas and legends. Stories. They are a mirror. They tell past and present and posterity. I sit and watch.