They bestowed upon me an award last year — Best Don’t Worry, Be Happy. Imagine that: a small, glittering token of tranquility, handed to a man who has known very little peace. The office applauded; laughter floated about like dust in sunlight. They all seemed to agree that I am the calm one, the man who worries for nothing and about no one. And I, like a fool or perhaps an actor too long in his role, smiled back at them.

It is curious how people so easily mistake quietness for contentment. They see me move slowly through corridors, hands in pockets, my tone light, my shoulders unburdened. They believe I am one of those blessed souls who are untouched by the gravity of things. How wrong they are.

For when night falls and the city’s murmurs grow faint, I turn to my desk like a penitent to his altar. There, amid papers and concept notes, I labour in silence. My eyes sting; the lamp hums with that mournful sound known only to solitary lamps. I read and reread, not out of ambition but compulsion — as though salvation might be hidden between bureaucratic lines.

And yet, in the morning, I will walk into the office again, composed, perhaps even amused. It is easier that way. To appear nonchalant is to be left alone. To be left alone is a kind of freedom, though a bitter one.

Nearly three years I have been here now. It seems that three years is my measure of endurance. Always, after the third year, something within me begins to shift — not loudly, but inevitably, like the turning of a key in an old lock. I tell myself I must move up or move out, that change is progress, that departure is renewal. But perhaps it is merely flight — from others, from stagnation, from myself.

Still, they will remember me as the man who did not worry. That will be my legacy: a portrait of ease painted over sleeplessness. Perhaps that is all any of us are — facades polished for public admiration, while inside, the machinery of our souls grinds noisily on.

So I shall hang their award somewhere visible, a small monument to the person they believe me to be. And tonight, once more, I will sit before my papers, my thoughts circling like weary birds. The house will be still, the lamp will burn, and I — the ever-unbothered — will quietly, faithfully, consume myself in the work no one sees.