The midnight patrol through my own thoughts

Dear Delyara, There is a strange, haunting loneliness to walking these empty corporate corridors at 3:00 in the morning while managing the security parameters for a company that doesn't know my name. The fluorescent lights overhead cast long, sterile shadows across the polished linoleum, and the only sound is the rhythmic, mechanical click of my own boots echoing through the dark. As I check the locks and monitor the black-and-white screens, my mind keeps drifting to my own internal estate. I am spending twelve hours a night protecting millions of pounds worth of physical property for someone else, while my own personal projects—my books, my design lines, my independent platforms—are forced to survive on whatever scraps of energy I have left at dawn. I have to stay focused, Delyara. I cannot let the role of the protector permanently consume the identity of the builder.