I’ve got a sample of iridium sitting on a stove. A rare metal with a faint glow. It came from a process that started years ago, if anything really ever does start or end.
Everything used to be boiling lava. Even the ink I’m using to write these words. There’s a romanticism to that. Everthing that is around is part of a story we will never understand or see unfold.
I’ve made having a job my priority, yet everybody complains about their jobs all the time. Why am I so eager to have one? What makes me good for a job is everything I am outside of my job. Like this iridium and what makes it important. It’s shine and luster come from a long story no one but itself will ever grasp.
Besides a few select people, no one can know anything about my story, my internal path.