I’m sitting here at my desk in the dark and the rain is just hitting the window over and over. It’s been raining for three days straight—that heavy, gray northern rain that gets into your bones. I have this travel brochure on my lap, the kind with the bright blue water and the white sand that looks almost fake. It’s for a place I should have gone to thirty years ago. Instead, I’m looking at my monitors. All that code. Thousands of lines of it. I’ve spent the better part of my life making sure the machine runs exactly the way it’s supposed to. Is that weird? To feel like you’ve just been a part of the hardware this whole time? I spent a long time in the service before I got into this line of work. It was all about discipline and doing what you were told, no matter what. But there was a situation back then. I don't really talk about it. Someone needed me to stay, or maybe they needed me to go with them, and I just... I did what the manual said instead. I followed the orders because that’s what a good man does. I came home, got the degree, and moved to this city because it was the SMART thing to do. I thought I was building something real. But now I look at this brochure and I wonder if I was just a coward hiding behind a set of rules. I don't really connect with the people at the office. They're all half my age and they talk about things that don't seem to have any weight. They don't know what it's like to have to make a choice that actually COSTS you something. Sometimes I feel like I'm wearing a costume. I sit in the meetings and I nod and I write the scripts, but inside I’m still back there, standing in the dust. Does everyone feel this? Like they’re just pretending to be a civilian? I feel like I did something wrong—like I committed a crime against myself. I took the life I was supposed to have and I buried it under a pile of paperwork and "security." There was a person. I don't use the name anymore. They told me "you don't have to do this, you can just walk away." That’s what they said. Right before I left for good. I can still hear the way the wind sounded when those words came out. I just looked at my boots and said "I have a responsibility." I thought that word meant EVERYTHING. Now I’m sixty-two and I’m sitting in a dark room in a city where I don't know my neighbors, and I realize I don't even know what that word means anymore. Responsibility to who? To a company that will delete my login credentials the day I walk out of here? I should probably just get up and make some coffee. Or go to sleep. My hands are shaking a little bit while I type this on my phone. Is that just getting older? Or is it just the realization that I’ve been holding my breath for thirty-five years? I keep thinking about that beach in the picture. The sun. The way the air would feel if it wasn't so damp and cold all the time. I just want someone to tell me it was okay to choose the boring path, but I think the time for that has passed... I'm just tired of the rain.