I guess I’m just writing this because I don’t know where else it goes. I’m 38 and I spent most of my life painting canvases that nobody ever bought, just living on toast and hope, you know? But then the bills got too big and the *ennui* got too heavy so I took this office thing. I’m a "junior analyst" which is a funny word for someone who just stares at numbers until they go blurry. I think maybe I’m not very good at it, or maybe I’m too good at seeing the wrong things. i don't know if this even counts as a problem, but it’s been sitting in my stomach like lead for a week now. I was looking at this report, this big glossy thing about the environment and how much "good" the company is doing. It’s all very *aesthetic*—lots of green leaves and pictures of wind turbines. But then I saw it. Just a little cell in the spreadsheet that shouldn’t have been there. It made everything look better than it actually is. Like, a lot better. If I say something, that big deal everyone is talking about—the one with all the zeros and the "green" funding—it just goes away. It evaporates. And my boss, he keeps talking about how this is the "future" of the firm. He’s a nice guy, I think. Or maybe he’s just loud. I think I should feel bad. People in movies always have this big epiphany where they stand on a desk and scream about the truth, right? But I just sat there. I looked at the coffee ring on my desk and thought about how my rent went up three hundred dollars last month. I thought about how I haven't bought new brushes in two years because I’m still paying off that credit card from when I tried to open that gallery space in Brooklyn. It’s such a *bourgeois* struggle, isn't it? To choose between a lie that pays for your life and a truth that just makes you hungry again. Someone—a senior person—came by my desk while I had the file open. He didn't even look at the numbers, he just patted me on the shoulder and said I was doing "great work" and that this investment was going to change everything. I just nodded. I didn't say, "Hey, this part here is fake." I just felt... nothing. Just this flat, grey static in my head. I wondered if he knew. I suspect everyone knows, in a way. It’s like a performance we’re all doing, but I’m the only one who forgot my lines and I’m just standing there blinking at the footlights. Maybe I’m overthinking it. It’s just numbers on a screen, right? It’s not like I’m out there dumping oil into a river with my own hands. But then I remember why I started painting in the first place—to see things clearly. To capture the *essence* of a moment. And now I’m literally paid to blur the lines. I’m an artist of the obfuscation. It’s kind of funny if you think about it long enough, but it doesn't make me laugh. It just makes me want to sleep for a hundred years. I tried to tell my sister about it, but she just said "at least you have health insurance now." And she’s right. I do. I have the best dental plan of anyone I know. I can go to the doctor and not worry about the bill. That should mean something, shouldn't it? I don't know why I’m acting like some kind of martyr. I’m not. I’m just a guy who found a mistake and decided to let it stay a mistake. I’m an accomplice to a spreadsheet. It’s so small. So petty. I’m sitting here on the floor of my apartment at 2 AM and the light from the streetlamp is hitting the wall in this really specific way—kind of a dirty orange—and all I can think about is that cell in the file. Cell G42. It’s just a number. But it’s the reason I can afford this floor. It’s the reason I’m not sleeping on a couch anymore. I think I’m becoming one of those people I used to make fun of in art school. The ones who sold out before they even had anything to sell. But it’s not even a sell-out, is it? It’s just a quiet... fading. I think maybe I’ll go in tomorrow and just... hit save. I won't change it. I’ll let the investment happen and I’ll get my bonus and maybe I’ll buy that expensive easel I’ve been looking at. The irony of buying art supplies with money from a lie is... well, it’s a lot. I don't know if I can even paint anymore. Every time I try to look at something, I just see the errors. I see the things that shouldn't be there. I don't know. I’m tired. I’m just really, really tired and I wish I hadn't looked at that tab in the first place. Does anyone else just... give up? Not in a big way, but in a small, daily way? Like you just stop trying to be the person you thought you were because it’s too expensive to be that guy. I feel like I’m wearing a costume that’s getting tighter every day. I’m 38 and I’m a liar. I don’t think it’s going to get better. I think this is just what the middle of your life looks like when you realize you aren't the hero of the story. You’re just the guy in the background making sure the numbers look pretty. I keep thinking about the "green" part of it. Saving the planet. It’s all so BIG and I’m so small.