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2019-01-08 09:32:02 (UTC)

A bomb threat at work on ..

A bomb threat at work on Saturday night. It was around 10PM when, out of nowhere, nurses were called to R.'s office. And when R. mentioned that the facility was issued two bomb threats that night-- I couldn't believe my ears. I recalled the mass shootings and violence I saw on TV and never realized things like that could happen to me. I was in shock. Conscious of such a looming threat, the floor thereafter was deathly quiet. I could only wonder what everybody thought and felt. R. advised us to walk out in the parking lot in groups. V.T. and I walked out together when we left work at 11:30PM. It was raining. The weather was biting cold. Low wind. I drove home in the dark and under the rain; the earth damp, feeling so small and insignificant in such a world, a universe, bound in time and life and death, for all that it was. "What is it for?" I kept asking. Sometimes I am weary of searching for meaning in a seemingly meaningless world and existence. What is existence? Does it only exist in an individual, in a creature's head, as one's own brain made it? I am infinitely curious on how one gets on with life through the succession of days, keeping up with one's reality, and perhaps the need to anchor one's own truth onto something solid, which becomes one's narrative as one could bear it. Perhaps each day one changes as one feels differently. Lately my narrative has become, "I am working thirty one days straight," as if I'm desperately wanting to be seen as workaholic. And the numerous people I know, just to keep their heads above water; it seems, cling to modified and individualized scripts that save their faces, that guard their dignities, so that they can be seen as their own person going through their own personalized existence. What a curious thing this is. I wish I could word it better. But anyhow, yesterday at work, for it was Sunday, I felt lazy. Golden Globes was on TV and I ended up charting in room *** so that I can watch the Golden Globes. Today at work was uneventful. S.A. was there. S.A. is a smoker and I had three smoke-breaks with her. Her, A.A. and I have become very close. We share the most intimate bones of our lives. Perhaps I was being presumptuous, but were A.A. and R.V. really doing something lascivious in room ***? I got a text message from C.C. tonight. Yet such topic opens up another portal of existence I don't wish to tackle at the moment. It is 2:15 AM to be exact. So to read Madame Bovary and off to bed. After all, I have work tomorrow. I am working thirty one days straight.