A Story of Impelled Ambitions

Her sneakers are soft on the wooden floor. She's made this walk a thousand times over, and today feels no different. She avoids the spots of sun that reach from the windows to the floor, not letting her stride penetrate their rays. The walk to the spruce wood door isn’t far, only just down the hall of other doors just like it. She always worries that she'll enter the wrong room, but this has yet to happen. The person on the other side of the door waits patiently, and barely looks up when she presses her fingers tenderly against the surface and pushes the dark planks open. She makes her way over to the blue bean bag chair that sits lonesome in the corner below two windows. She wonders sometimes if she's the only one who sits in it, as it always seems to be in the same position as how she left it. Once seated, each time, her eyes glance around the room for changes. Sometimes it's the plant, its leaves brighter or duller, straighter or droopier. Other times it's the order of the folders on the shelf, one red to the left now on the right, misplaced. Sometimes it's the rug, offset to the table in a new direction, but it's always off set. Perhaps someday it'll be on set. She does this not to be observative, but instead to avoid speaking first. She knows each day she comes is a new opportunity for her to break this habit, but today was not that day. Perhaps next thursday, at 3pm on 457 North Moscarin Ave, second floor, 4th door on the left after the lobby.

As she runs out of things to look at, her eyes float over to the window, admiring the curtains and the faint world she can see through them. Leaning back, the being across from her asks her how her week has been, how she feels, and what’s happened since the last time the two of them have spoken. She ponders telling them everything, spilling every secret she has sitting threateningly on her shoulder; but ever since she found out They’re at war with Their own body, a deadly force appearing recently, she finds it hard to really talk about herself anymore. So instead she tells them she is doing alright, and spends some time discussing work. She's no longer feeling motivated to return, each morning is dragging worse than the last and she wonders if a new job would do her good. She loves her job, or at least she did, but as the rest of the world fades from her, so does this.

“Discouragement can be our worst enemy, and our greatest ally” she is told, but the words fly over her, they aren’t what she wants to hear. “Having motivation and inspiration can fuel continuation for exploration” The words linger in her mind, their potential for positivity tug on the hope still buried somewhere inside her vessel. They stand slowly, and move behind Their desk. Opening a drawer, They say They have something for her whilst pulling out a small black book. She responds with curiosity masked in nonchalant sarcasm, which brings an amused chuckle to the base of Their lips. Sitting back down, They reach across the space between the two of them, and hand her the slick object. A strap lies across the right side, holding it shut, and a ribbon, a marking of place, dangles out from between the pages. She protests the need for a diary, or journal, annoyed by the over advertisement of such a method. But They assure her, this is for something else. “This is to help you get some motivation circulating. When you want to do something, big or small, write it down, open the door for yourself right at the root of the process. So often we tend to come up with excuses to stop ourselves from doing things. When you accomplish it, mark it off, perhaps even explain how you accomplished it. Each time you complete something, that's one more thing you can look back on.” They turn around and pick up a pen, handing it to her. They ask her to write down the first thing she'd like to achieve, but she doesn’t know what that is. She looks around the room for ideas. Noticing the plant that seems to have more to express than she does, she writes down her first ambition.

When she returns home the apartment is quiet. The shades don’t allow much light to peek through their angled stance, leaving the household tree sitting in front of them lifeless and still. Despite her recent inheritance of $20,000 from an unknown, deceased relative, her life is simplistic, dull even. The rug sitting in the studio space is centered nicely given the space itself lacks anything to accompany it. Her bed is only a few inches from the ground, and partnered with a nightstand, dresser, and unopened boxes she never unpacked. The room bleeds into a kitchen, and leads then after into the bathroom. There are no pictures on the walls, or magnets on the fridge. There is no table for eating nor chairs for sitting. Even the counters are barren past the half eaten bag of chips and unopened box of cereal. The bathroom holds the most, a few paintings dangle above the toilet and sink, and a small abstract structure sits on the back of the porcelain.There's one tall lamp beside the fridge, and spread out across the ceiling, there are a few lights that click on lively when she enters the space. Throwing her small bag at the counters surface, the small black book slips and hits the ground with a light thud to remind her of its presence. Her outstretched fingers grip it gently before slowly lifting and opening it to reread what she had written before. Glancing up at the dying household plant she sighs and walks to the bed. A clear jar sits alone on the nightstand; a jar that holds a pen she uses to write her next ambition.

Ambi 2. (2/22/21): make one new friend at work

No sooner after scribing the desire, her pocket vibrates anxiously, signaling the incoming call. She hesitates only for a moment, seeing her boss's name appear, but eventually brings the device to her ear.

“Hello?”

“Hey Isemay,” her boss's voice is eager, and wastes no time to carry forth to the point. “So we have someone new starting tomorrow, she’ll be helping in human resources. I’d like you to show her around, introduce her to the place.” Isemay thinks for a moment, moving her lips to respond but her boss interrupts her with more explanation “I would ask Ian, but you know how he can be. I want her to get a good impression of the place, and he can be...well...Ian” Her boss chuckles softly “Plus, I figured you could use something new to do. Anywho, She’ll be here at 7, so I’ll need you to come in earlier than normal. Will that be a problem?”

“..not at all,” Her words come out distracted as Isemays attention is diverted from her boss's voice. She looks to the small black book for only a moment before snapping her attention back to the superior on the other side of the line “I’d be happy to, it’ll be nice to have a new face around”

“I had hoped you’d say that, see you tomorrow then. 7am.” Isemay continues to hold the phone to her ear until the dial tone sirens the end of the conversation. She wonders now if her second ambition is about to be easily achieved.

The next day had come quickly, and passed even quicker. The new employee's name was Cecilia, and she was close in age to Isemay, enjoyed the same foods, and even had the same favorite coffee shop on 23rd. Infact, both her and Isemay had lunch at the Paragon Room and discussed their favorite films and works of art. Isemay wondered to herself if not for the black book would she have been so social with the new employee. Regardless, they had a lot in common, and the things they didn’t only helped to create the new and exciting friendship. However such a friendship provided more than companionship, it also brought its own ounce of inspiration. Being able to go home and mark her first finished ambition, made Isemay all the more excited to come up with another. Each time she wrote down a new ambition, an opportunity would present itself. Each time she accepted it, even when it came with risk, she was able to achieve it. As her ambitions grew larger, so did her list, making it easier to chase uneven odds. By the time her book was nearly halfway full, her apartment had gained personality. She unpacked her things, and now more paintings occupied the walls, healthier foods filled her fridge, and even her bed was complimented by a desk, a chair and decorative lights. Yet, most of the $20,000 she had inherited from an unknown relative, was still sitting vacant in a savings account. Everything she had done, she had done at her own expense . Cecilia had convinced her that although she should be grateful for so much money, if she used it to get what she wanted, the achievement would not be as gratifying, and she would be left unsatisfied or unfulfilled; and Isemay had to agree she knew she’d feel guilty if she used it. And she did. Her 10th ambition was to pay off her car. She decided to do so by using some of the inherited money, and although it was nice to no longer have that liability, there was a sense of self respect lost when having her responsibility paid off by someone she had never met and yet was gifted so much money from. Money already had no value to her, but she wanted to be grateful for such a bitter sweet, unfortunately fortunate event. So she did with the rest, the only thing she knew would bring her the same gratification as her other ambitions.

Returning to the wood floor and spruce doors, on a thursday at 3pm, she sat across from the familiar face she had noticed growing weaker each week for the last four months. Chemo was expensive, and only so much of it was covered by insurance. However, Isemay sat in the blue bean bag chair speaking before They could, offering to give Them all she could. Naturally, They did not want to take the money from her, but she came unwilling to take no for an answer. They had brought her a new life. A second chance. She was happy at work even on bad days, and could walk through rays of light without feeling like an intrusion. She knew the difference between alone and by oneself, and she could see herself as a reflection of things she's done instead of a fading potential. After a long conversation, she inevitably left with $15000 less to her name. Through the fall of tears she felt the rise of gratification, knowing the money that came from loss of life, would save another. And when she returned home, she looked back over her ambitions, only for her gaze to fix on the dracaena tree beside her desk peering out the window with vibrant colors and lively expression. In doing so she turns back to the first page of the small black book, reminding herself of her first ambition, she checks it off.

The End.