by Titoxz
My new daily routine felt surreal. I woke late, stared at the grimy ceiling, flipped through half-finished drafts on my laptop. My dissertation had concluded that capitalism relentlessly commodified all experience. Now, I watched that dynamic at street level—billboards promising bliss in consumer form, job recruiters touting illusions of self-empowerment, advertisements that molded insecurities into monetary gains.
I occasionally ventured outside for groceries, ignoring the forced smiles of exhausted clerks. The city soared above me in towering glass monoliths, each proclaiming some brand’s grand ambition. In the walkways, people scurried, scanning phone apps for the next big sale or the next ephemeral jolt of dopamine. I recognized them as unwitting cogs trapped in illusions they never questioned. My own illusions had long since been shattered by Elena’s death, by the empty shell of sincerity that Igor had become.
I wrote sporadically. The pages gained bitterness with each passing day, describing how corporate infiltration had turned intimate emotions into market niches. Whether it was love, faith, or community spirit, everything was packaged for profit. My pen dripped with fury. At times, I remembered Elena’s insistence that small bursts of empathy might be the key. But without her, that hope rang hollow.
One afternoon, an expensive-looking envelope appeared beneath my door, bearing the stamp of “Skyline Tower, 39th Floor.” The enclosed note read:
“Victor,
You are cordially invited to a promotion celebration for Igor Kuznetsov.
Venue: The Aurora Bar, Midtown.
We would be honored by your presence.”
I stared at it, feeling my heart clench. Igor’s success was no surprise, but seeing it spelled out in gilded lettering jolted me more than I expected. I was torn: contempt told me to ignore the invitation; curiosity drove me to see what he had become. Eventually, curiosity won. I needed to confirm whether the bond of our youth had entirely eroded into the corporate cynicism I now despised.
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