Fifth... floor.

I'm thinking whether I should write. I shouldn't since it's already quite late and I have a busy schedule planned out for tomorrow (like it matters), but I might as well drop a line.

I've been shocked today. Proper shocked, like when you realize you're going to trip and fall over (seeing yourself in slow motion as you're drooping downwards for aeons) or when you send a personal email to your whole address book.

I had a bad morning, waking up too late, living through hell tutoring the kid and being too late for the lecture that I wanted to take. I'm not the type who'll burst in after thirty minutes and apologize. Not with this.

So I meet up with a friend (let's call her Cloud) and go around a bit, check some literature with my mentor and have a coffee. God knows I needed it. During the one-hour coffee (which is short for our terms) we come to the conclusion that we're all fucked up, that we have no future and that we're doing a lot of stuff that we don't really want to do (but have no other choice really) and that we're both kind of stuck in the stuff we're into.

(I'm always missing an English translation of the Swedish phrase att syssla med, which would mean something like to be occupied with, but in such a different manner that I would actually just camouflage it in between all the English).

I have my job as a hobby. I have my PhD as a hobby. Nothing is proper. And a sentence comes up and really carves into my brain. I have my life as a hobby.

We both just give up and puff the last cigarette smoke. Cloud takes off since she's got some more stuff to do and I bravely take the elevator and press the five button. The automated voice says Going... up. ... Fifth... floor. Literally. In English. That's what you get for studying at a philological university.

I'm sitting up there and it's already getting slightly dark. Since they changed the time last weekend, it's getting darker even earlier. I'm the type that need a kick in the butt, so I get right on it and do some quite serious work. I was really surprised by myself since I really did do a lot of work in those couple of hours.

So I figure I'll go have a smoke, make a tiny break, have a refreshment and I can go back to translating again. I click the elevator button, the doors open and I enter. I'm alone in it and it's no wonder, since it's already late and no one sane is still in the library.

The ride to the ground floor takes eight seconds and I half-consciously glance at the mirror. I hate those elevator mirrors. I don't know if they make them especially to ruin people's lives it's the lighting, but you can see every effing thing in them. I hate them. I don't really hate many things, but I hate those.

Within that second I catch a glimpse of my face and see a grey hair. It might not really come as a surprise, since I've been getting grey since six or seven years ago. People comfort me saying it's genetic. Yeah, I have more of those than my older brother. So, that's no wonder.

But this one was in my beard. Now, this sounds even more hilarious, since I don't actually have a beard. I don't have a beard at all. I have some hair above and under my lips and a bit on the chin, but that's all. People find it funny. I find it irritating. I have to shave or I'd look like a mountain shepherd in his teens, but there's really not much to shave. I don't know how to put it properly, but it sure as hell is super annoying.

The elevator is too fast and I simply don't have the time to actually panic about it. There's a Door... opening and a ding! and there's two people staring at me, waiting to get into the elevator. Yeah, now you wanna go up. Dammit.

I barely manage to roll the cigarette while everyone's chattering on the big flight of stairs in front of the building. It's dark and there's no one familiar around - maybe for the better. I simply can't believe it. Am I that old? Am I that fucking old? Do I really deserve this? I'm going over my chin with my hand, as if I'm going to feel the hair under my fingers. It's miniature. But I think Laika can see it right about now.

I'm not the panicking type. I'm depressive and pessimistic and annoyed and hard to handle, but I'm not the panicking type. I light the cigarette and think to myself, for lack of a better word, what the fuck?! I don't know if it came out loud, but I didn't really care.

After the whole day and all the crap that's happened (well, it might not have been that bad, but let's stick to the mood), after the twist that I managed to pull off and all the stuff that I've managed to translate, after convincing myself that I'm doing OK - this happens. Geez.

I go back inside, enter the elevator and hear the so-well-known Going... up. ... Fifth... floor. Fuck... you. I wanted to say that. But I didn't.

This is not a photo from tonight, since I was obviously in too much shot to take it. It's from when I was going up the highest building in Zagreb. Not much to do with this actually, but you get the picture...