My office building

On a regular working day, you'd see them trickling in the sunken lobby, trailing towards the time clock like zombies on line. Others would loiter around, losing their way in hunger, looking for victims to buy them a free breakfast because their pockets are empty. There are those who would work the crowd, selling their wares, gathering whatever extra income they can for their salaries are not enough to pay the rent. Still others, dig their way in, for information, for praise, for left-over power, for belongingness, only to find themselves stuck in their own hallowed graves. There are those who trudge in late, harassed and overloaded with luggage that hide their hands and sink their eyes. There are the strong ones, who strut in with a determined flair, focusing on the day's work, only to avoid the worries of home. Then there are the untouchables, who stroll in like royalty and followed by whimpering servants, with their heads held high and a self-hate equal to the floors of this building. And then there's me, observing, but not caring; speaking out, but not participating; here present, but mind elsewhere.

If God led me here, what then is my purpose? And what have I done to make a difference?

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