Link to article: Drowning in Ambition.
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[[include :scp-wiki:component:info-ayers |lang=en |page=component:info-ayers |authorPage=https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/hickorys-haven |comments=A short piece about ambition, ability, and burnout. ]] [[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] **3:46 in the afternoon.** There is plenty of time left in the day. She sits at her desk, staring into the dull light of the monitor that washes the room in a pitiful mockery of sunlight. A sticky note hangs loosely off one side of the screen, its faded adhesive threatening to discard it to the ground. A dozen bullet points of things to do number on the note. Only one has been scratched off today. She sits at her desk, her hands moving slowly. So slowly. Every keystroke takes an effort Herculean. Every small motion is a step through thick mud. ---- **4:11 in the afternoon.** There is time left in the day. She sits at her desk, dull, unfocused eyes scanning the bullet points on the hanging yellow square before her. Only one has been scratched off today. A sound from her crusty desktop speakers rouses her to a state of mind close to attention. A new email has arrived for her to skim. Another request. She knows it's something she's capable of. She should be able to do it. It's just a simple task within her skill set, within the scope of mundane abilities she was hired for. She sits at her desk, sticky note peeled off and resting in front of her keyboard, pen in hand. She adds another bullet point to the list. Only one has been scratched off today. As she moves a sluggish arm to replace it on the screen, her eyes glance at the time in the lower corner. 4:16 in the afternoon. She slides her thumb over the portion of the accusatory note that overlaps her monitor a few times to get it to stick. There should be enough time. ---- **6:39 in the afternoon.** Time is trickling down the drain. She sits at her desk, the clock not abiding her own lethargic pace. A pile of papers stacked unevenly to the side of her desktop repels her gaze. There will be time for it later. There will have to be. Tap after tap signifies the appearance of words on the screen, a drop in the bucket she's running out of time to fill. Her gaze strays again to the treacherous list still barely clinging to the screen. More than one bullet point has been scratched off now, but no more than two. The inked over tasks aren't consecutive; the latter is halfway down the list, a short and simple one. It was to be her break of sorts halfway through the day. She sits at her desk, her hands still again, as if turned to finely carved stone. There may have been a point in the past where she'd procrastinate with a game of Solitaire or the like in a moment such as this, but she's long lost interest in those habits. She's lost interest in anything that can't be checked off a list. And yet her hands are still. In the unhappy middle ground between productivity and rest, she slides down into the valley and cannot find it in her to pick up and surmount either slope. ---- **8:30 in the afternoon.** There is only her own time left in the day. She sits at her desk, painfully aware that it's time for her to clock out for the night. Her fingers are spurred on only by the knowledge that so much is overdue, a whip to the back of a tired horse. The only window leads out into the hall beyond her office. If the blinds weren't drawn, she'd see a dozen people filing past. They'd probably be in good spirits, but she wouldn't know. She doesn't make small talk anymore. She sits at her desk, the bags under her eyes growing heavier and heavier. She avoids any stray glances to the yellow square in her peripheral vision. She knows only two long marks cover items on the list. ---- **4:37 in the morning.** Time has run dry; a new day is cracked open. She sits at her desk, head inches from her keyboard, a thin strand of saliva dripping onto her lap. The weight has been lifted from her shoulders by the gentle hand of sleep, but not free of charge. As she gradually stirs from slumber, the weight sags above her as if on a rope giving way to force it cannot contend with. She opens her eyes. The rope snaps. A yellow sticky note has fallen and drifted onto the ground. It has over a dozen bullet points written out on it. Only two have been scratched off. [[include :scp-wiki:component:license-box]] [[include :scp-wiki:component:license-box-end]]