I spend a lot of work days in an office cell where I productively stare at a screen and press different keys in a timely manner so that work tasks appear to make its way down the to-do list.
Am I suffering?
On such days, I tell myself that I am suffering; of boredom that is. I tell myself that I am suffering of a life in the process of being wasted and I am suffering of lack of fresh oxygen and I am suffering of joint idleness and all blood circuitry malfunctions that relate to the sitting position for the duration of a 9 to 5 shift.
My precious life’s vital needs are not being met and I am therefore eating too many break-room pastries to replace a void in my soul.
But then I think of some characters whom I see in front of Port Authority and I say oh man, THAT’S suffering …
The perception of suffering changes when I am approached by a walking bundle of moldy sleeping bags with a frost-bitten hand reaching out for change. The sadness in these eyes as they dig through the garbage cans for remnants of a tuna sandwich.
And not long before I claimed myself to be the sufferer of sorrows because my cozy office is not offering me the satisfaction of all-out fun and excitement.
I don’t know what it is that I want but I should be happy with the little bit that I got