The tuneless ballad of the Man Alone

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He sits alone in a dark room.

Hitting the refresh button on gmail, waiting for new mails to come in.

Ever since gmail separated the promo mails and spam, the inbox aches for fresh mail.

He keeps looking at the phone that never rings, picks it up, puts it back, and picks it up again.

Going through the call list for any missed call he might’ve missed.

There’s none.

Then he moves on to the contact list.

Should he call that old colleague of his who seemed happy to meet him last month and asked him to keep in touch?

Why didn’t he answer the phone when he called back in a few days?

Casper wouldn’t mind getting a call, but then what can you discuss with a middle-aged man who’s just lost his job?

Middle-aged or old?

When does a middle-aged man turn old, anyway?

Who cares.

All the books that were ever written on management lines the shelves behind him.

They all seem outdated now. Everyone’s reading blogs, these days.

Blogs are crap.

But he can’t afford to say so.

It’s all a part of part of this social media stuff that old men can’t afford to carp about.

He chewed his nails.

And thought.

What to think about now?

He was always known as a great thinker.

The last time someone last said that was too long back to remember.

And he could be quite a captivating speaker.

If only he were given a chance.

No one’s been calling him of late.

Except that guy who’s hired him for a project that never seems to end.

Who never listens to what he has to say.

He never like sighing, but he does.

The laptop lies with its jaws wide open in front of him, with a blank document he has opened.

He starts writing.

Waiting for the phone to ring.

When everyone sounds optimistic and in control, its cool to be clueless and depressed old man!

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