Dear Wigleaf,

I just left my job, after 23 years there. I'm happy, I think. But time will tell.

I got that job when I was in my twenties and I was struggling financially. I'd wander the central business district with my CV, and in the evenings people would come out of the office buildings. They'd pour into public transport and walk fast along footpaths that went to places I'd never been. But some workers remained, and the yellow lights from their offices looked like campfire lights to me. I'd see people 15 floors up, bent at their desks in a concentration posture, perhaps blithely unaware the day was even over. It was comforting, they were in their correct habitat. Important work was being done. I sensed the pleasure in it. There was an intimacy in the late-night meetings that I witnessed through the windows. Things were happening that made the world go around. Cogs and levers turning in an invisible world. And I wanted to be there with them. I wanted to make it there. To be an office worker.

Just because I've come to believe that dream was epically flawed doesn't mean achieving it isn't something to be proud of. My twenty-year-old self had his sights set on a thing, and so that was how we lived.

Now it's my time. There's something I want to build. I guess the next 23 years are up to me.

I hope to see you around.

Glenn Orgias