The Corporate Burnout

Dear Delyara, It’s 11:45 PM and I’m sitting in my office in the City. The cleaning crew is the only other sign of life. I have a six-figure salary, a view of the Thames, and a soul that feels like a dried-out sponge. I’ve spent fifteen years climbing a ladder that leads to a roof with nothing on it. Why am I here? I’m writing this because if I don’t say it out loud, I might actually disappear into my spreadsheet. I’m quitting tomorrow. I don’t have a plan. I just have this letter and a sudden, violent need to breathe air that doesn't smell like air conditioning. Delete my browser history. I’m out.