There was a dream I had a couple weeks ago involving my past co-workers, bosses, random people with cigarettes and notebooks. Were they journalists? It seemed like a party in a tall tower — night time fog and blurry buildings — Gotham city vibes. Different kind of interactions.

A sweaty man asking to talk to him in private.

Clowns dancing around with “chance” cardboard signs.

HR lady imitating a taro reading with 20s dollar bills.

A colleague asking me to heal her knee with the power of my mind.

Observing this surrealistic psycho triller as a main character was traumatizing enough, but not for my subconsciousness. Out of nowhere, I had a chewing gum stuck in my mouth. I kept nervously munching on it first, but it grew in volume and turned into a soft clay mass. I just wanted to get it out. I listened and listened. I couldn’t say a word.

I guess it’s an inner pressure to write about my recent work situation. Let’s pick a genre first. What about a letter? I send so many of them those days — applying for jobs, editing resumes, mixing up work experiences, adding skills, links, achievements.

“Hello, — I’ll write to an email address named “careers”. — I was just walking around and looking at the foggy lights of skyscrapers from afar. I closed my right eye, and my left one was watering so much. I could barely see. But this damned view would please even a half-blind person, right?

So what about you, are you looking at Manhattan or Brooklyn, or maybe both? Probably sitting on a white couch on some twenty-second floor and your finger is poking at my letter. Poking and poking, trying to delete it. And the phone is frozen. And the funniest thing is that the reason — your phone, my eye — is the same: it’s the weather’s change. Global warning, local freezing, humid mind winds”.

Drawing by me. Filtered pic with Polaroid camera by Greg Casimir

Rolling their eyes, “careers” finally delete my letter, hurry up and taking a speedy elevator down. Some pressure is taken off their head, filling ears with an invisible air balloon. Once outside, they hop into a yellow cab and yell ”SohO!” at a driver. Beethoven’s “Für Elise” is playing in the car, but it’s an impromptu cover performed by a band called “Tennessee’ Worn Jeans”. The tempo is fast, brisk, like a horse out of breath after racing. The melody bounces from side to side, and my addressee starts to feel sick.

“You know, — continues my own “Für Elise”, now from the spam folder. — Everyone around here just try to survive — I get it. It’s important to appreciate what you have, but you also need to know where you’re going. Soho on Friday night sounds like a great idea!”

RE: Automatic response from user “careers”:

“Dear Alena,

?

To be continued.