Ticking Time

In the sanctified space of the post office, a temple of the mundane, I stood in line, parcel in hand, weighed down not by the object itself but by the symbolic heft I imparted to this quotidian ritual. The linoleum floor, scuffed by countless feet, bore witness to the passage of countless souls. The fluorescent lights overhead flickered intermittently, casting a sterile glow that only amplified the banality of the surroundings. In this setting, every action, no matter how banal, becomes a site of profound reflection. Vonnegut’s assertion, “We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful about what we pretend to be,” resonates here as I perform the role of the conscientious adult, imbuing this act with fabricated gravitas.