At thirty-eight, his story seemed to have already been written

At thirty-eight, his story seemed to have already been written, he sipped his coffee and recalled where he went wrong or maybe got it right, for he had grown tired of the insurance game, of small offices with glass walls, of clients who came and went like faceless, soulless shadows. He was weary of the lies told to his wife, of stolen embraces in elevators, of long hallways where he lost himself among secrets and hidden desires, of Christmas and New Year parties, of anniversaries and false promises, of payments for new cars and furniture, of electricity, gas, water—the burden of necessities. He was tired and had given up, just like that, a simple gesture, but full of consequences, and the divorce came quickly, with alcohol following like a bitter rain, and suddenly he found himself outside of it all, with nothing but the silence of emptiness, discovering that even the emptiness of the soul is a heavy burden. If there had been a gentler path between the two extremes of life, for it seemed a person had only two choices—to dive into the whirlwind or be a nobody, and he, caught between the desire to live and the need to find himself, sought balance, a path that was neither asphalt nor dust, but perhaps a blade of grass swaying in the wind. But the world didn't offer such paths, only harsh, unyielding choices, and he, lost in the flow of memories, imagined a life without sharp corners, where each step did not lead to an abyss but to a peaceful meadow, where the soul could breathe, untouched by the relentless noise of expectations.