By now, the office had become an odd sort of playground for existential crises. Every corner of the building—once a bastion of sacred inefficiency—now hummed with the faint buzz of mild subversion. The air felt a little heavier, and perhaps it was the slight increase in humidity that caused Elias to stare even longer at the microwave, or perhaps the weight of the changing tide was finally reaching even his weary mind.
The ritual of doing “something” had spread like a slow, curious contagion. Gregor and Tam led the charge, of course, but it seemed that even those who had once sworn allegiance to the ideals of indifference were beginning to make small, inconsequential changes in their own routines.
It wasn’t anything earth-shattering. It wasn’t even disruptive in the way most people might think of disruption. No, it was subtler than that. It was the kind of change you didn’t notice until you looked back and realized the room had shifted, ever so slightly, under your feet.
Cassandra, for instance, had started using the office printer—something she had previously avoided as it disturbed the peaceful energy of her workspace. Now, she printed only inspirational quotes in a bold font, just to make sure everyone could feel the weight of her deeply personal feelings about personal growth. Meanwhile, Elias had become obsessed with sending out weekly “emotional calibration” surveys, which no one really filled out, but the gesture was important. The idea that something was being done felt like progress.
And Tam? Well, Tam had embraced the quiet chaos with his usual zeal. He had implemented an entirely new calendar system for scheduling meetings about the importance of scheduling meetings. It was a glorious, multi-layered paradox that no one could fully comprehend, but everyone adored. Every meeting was an opportunity to discuss the profoundness of time itself.
Gregor, on the other hand, found himself in an uncomfortable place. He had started questioning everything—not just the office, but life itself. What was the meaning of all this? What was the purpose of doing something that didn’t change anything? Was he simply going through the motions like everyone else, or was there something deeper to be uncovered in this bizarre little rebellion?
He started a personal project—a documentary about office culture, which he told himself was important. But deep down, he wondered if the project was merely an excuse to capture the absurdity of the moment and try to make sense of it all. After all, what else was there to do in a place where you could neither truly advance nor retreat?
One afternoon, during yet another “meditative” break, Gregor found himself standing in front of the microwave. He wasn’t sure why. Perhaps it was the lingering question of whether or not the popcorn really needed to pop for it to be considered a success. Maybe, just maybe, the real success was in simply waiting for the popcorn to want to pop.
But before he could reach an answer, he heard Elias’s voice behind him.
“Gregor,” Elias said, his tone strangely serene, “how do you feel?”
Gregor turned slowly, his gaze meeting Elias’s. For a moment, he wasn’t sure if he was being asked about his emotional state or the state of the microwave, but he answered anyway.
“Fine,” he said, though he wasn’t sure if he was lying to Elias or to himself.
Elias nodded solemnly, as if this was the most profound answer he could have heard. “You see, Gregor,” he began, “sometimes we don’t need to fix things. We just need to embrace them. To accept that the microwave, like our lives, is a system that operates on its own terms.”
Gregor blinked. He hadn’t realized that he’d been seeking enlightenment in the form of microwave metaphors, but now that it was here, it felt oddly fitting.
“Yes,” Elias continued, “It’s the art of passive transcendence. To not intervene, but to let things be. Sometimes, the solution to every problem is to simply let it stay the same. Without action. Without expectation.”
Gregor nodded slowly. He wasn’t sure what to make of this, but it made a strange kind of sense. Was this what they had all been striving for? The perfect balance between inaction and serenity? Was this the ultimate goal of the office’s philosophical revolution?
The thought lingered in his mind as he walked back to his desk, and for the first time in what felt like years, he felt a strange peace settle over him. It was subtle, fleeting, and entirely unearned—but there it was. It was the peace of nothingness, of being precisely where he was supposed to be.
The office hummed on, quietly and efficiently, as if no one had ever questioned its rhythm. The microwave beeped softly in the background, signaling the end of the existential crisis that had quietly faded away into the daily routine of passive productivity.
And that, as far as Gregor could tell, was the most beautiful thing of all.
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