The Green Circle
The little green circle glows,
a beacon in the digital fog.
My avatar sits beside it,
a polite digital twin
anchored to the light.
It tells the world I am here.
Even when my mind drifts,
watching rain streak the window,
or tracing patterns
in dust motes drifting through sunlight.
The green light pulses,
a quiet metronome
setting the rhythm of my day.
If it turns yellow
for even a moment
I imagine a shadow crossing
the Manager’s screen.
A pause.
A question.
Red means busy.
A sacred shield.
But red costs energy.
Red demands explanation.
A carefully crafted excuse
filed neatly
in the approved language of productivity.
I sip lukewarm coffee.
The steam is barely visible.
I check the status.
Green.
Good.
The machine is satisfied.
I type a sentence.
Delete it.
Rewrite it.
Not for clarity.
For the algorithm.
For the steady pulse
of uninterrupted green.
My focus drifts from the spreadsheet.
Instead I watch the tiny window
where my face sits frozen.
Professional.
Attentive.
Harmless.
Am I nodding enough?
Is my mouth curved
in the correct expression of engagement?
The unseen audience
watches the light.
Not me.
If I walk away for five minutes
to stretch the ache in my neck
the system notices.
A silent accusation
recorded somewhere
in a distant server farm.
Did I forget to move the mouse?
A small shake.
A phantom twitch.
A digital white lie
to confirm I still exist.
The Teams icon sits quietly
in the corner of the screen.
My warden.
My witness.
My keeper.
It demands visibility.
To be seen
is to be working.
To be green
is to be compliant.
I remember a time
when work was measured
by finished reports.
By solved problems.
By something
that actually existed.
Now the proof is color.
A glowing pixel.
The unblinking eye
of the corporate gaze.
So I adjust my chair.
Straighten my posture.
Move the mouse again.
Just enough
to keep the little circle glowing.
So the system knows.
So the managers know.
So the machine knows.
That I am perfectly present.
Perfectly visible.
Perfectly still.
A quiet human orbiting
a tiny emerald sun.
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