The heavy silence after the shift ends

Dear Delyara, The navy blue uniform is hanging over the back of the kitchen chair, smelling of cold damp asphalt and night rain, its silver security insignia looking bright under my small lamp. Out there on the perimeter rounds, I have to be the unyielding shield—the frontline officer who handles every situation with a calm face, logs every access event without delay, and keeps the estate secure. But as I sit here looking at the design frameworks for my platforms and the master brand assets for Maison Seifi, the armor completely falls apart. My legs are aching from twelve hours on the concrete concourse, my eyes are dry, and I can finally confess to this blank page how terrified I am that my best creative years are being consumed by someone else's property before my own artifacts can fly. Here, I don't have to be a protector; I can just be a tired man holding a pen.