On this bleak and dark morning, he is dead.

Yes, he still lives physically; he even clocked in at the exact 8:00 am as usual with the same suit that he was wearing in the past 25 years. 

He is dead, however. He has just realized on this tragic and cold morning on his way taking metro to work – he lost his will to live. Yes, “live.” 

It all went back to the moment he was up while cursing the alarm clock. In the past 25 years, it was this old, European-styled mechanic clock that he was both grateful and deeply detested for. While accurately saving him from being late at work day to day, the clock kept crushing him from the pleasure of sleeping and yes, living comfortably. 

This morning, as he was repeating the same gratitude and hatred circle, and was trying to reach his clothes for work, he suddenly stopped. Sitting still in his 1-meter x 1.5 meter rectangular-shaped bed,  a question that never  emerged from his head once suddenly popped up – “ doing this all for what?”

Yes, grooming his hair, washing his face, and even preparing for his “Super-power” breakfast , filled with nuts, fruits and whole-grain breads, for what? 

Rushing out of his small and clean one-bedroom apartment at the exact 6:30 am, buying his first morning Americana at the same corner café, and always finishing it when the third line of metro train arrived,  for what? 

This morning, at this moment, sitting still, with all these questions raiding inside of his brain with all 3 trillions of brain cells protesting and suddenly parlaying, he stopped, the first time ever from the last 25 years.

“ get up! You idiot! you are gonna be late for your job, and lose it – the only job you have ever had, and ever being good at doing.” 

“oh, the job,” he murmured in a slow, deep and hoarse voice.  The same-old day job of teaching English grammar in a middle school in the past 25 years. 

Again, “for what?” 

He could still remember the first morning, just like this same one before trying out his first job. 

“how different I felt back then,” tucking his comforter under his arms, he thought.

On that same morning, he tried his white shirt, the oceanic blue suit and charcoal tie for the first time – he bought with a bargain price in a local tailor shop 3 days earlier, the place only new university graduates would visit. When staring at himself in mirror, he almost couldn’t recognize the guy: a shy and quiet 21-year-old looking back at him with confusion, hesitancy  and yet charm and the energy of youth; the sesame dark and short hair combed and groomed neatly to the back , a pair of golden-framed round glasses on his sharp and tall nose, and the eyes, oh, the titled, crystal clear and piercing eyes looking at him with awe and most strikingly, hope. 

The 21-year-old almost bounced down to the school building, and when entering the shared office for the first time, being surrounded with the snow white ceiling and walls, lush room- plants and fellow teachers’ greeting, he was euphoric. “Finally, being appreciated and respected for the first time at last, he hummed quietly. 

“never again would I go back to the small and stuffy apartment that the old man and woman rented under 150 bucks monthly, and tolerate their cold tone, and verbal abuse. Never again.” 

When entering his classroom for the first time, seeing his students all sitting silently and skeptically, he was a little bit nervous and wondered if his old-styled clothes and country- accent were appalling them. Slowly, however, when a trace of sweet smile appeared on their rosy cheeks, his heart melted, and an icy and hard edge embedded so deeply inside of his heart for so long also cracked and melted. 

“This is home; I am home.” Some tears slowly sided down.  “ I am never goanna hurt these innocent angels as the old man and woman hurt me.” He promised himself.