W.'s overwhelmed by work, he says, broken by it, by the prospect of it. 'Another day full of dread', he says to himself, as soon as he arrives in his office. Then he emails me: 'Another day full of dread'!
But I'm already at it, W. knows that. I'm already working, and without complaint. How am able to just get on with it?, W.'s always wondered that. We're carthorses, trudgers in the mire. But there I am, just getting on with it, despite the absurdity of it all, despite the meaninglessnesss of everything.
It must be a Hindu thing, W. says. A karmic thing. I'm working to escape the wheel of rebirth, aren't I? Or at the very least to be reborn as something better than I am.
