No wonder this country is underdeveloped, I ruminate. All the people around me are not developing it! The wealth changes hands between the rich, and the poor get nothing. Even the people in the poverty-reduction business take part in the farce. I should know: I am one.
The next day, I double my efforts at work, as payback to the people whom I will never meet and whom I am supposedly helping. But then, what about the day after that? If I do not keep up my double-effort, that means I could be working faster. Any time I spend on break is time I spend not helping people—people who cannot afford my laziness. I skip breaks and shorten my lunches. I doubt I will ever know if these efforts are fruitful; but can I really risk taking my time?
Once upon a time I did not know or care about any of this. Now I do care and I still do not know. I roam the streets to get time to myself to piece together my thoughts; but I am always interrupted by friendly neighbours and passers-by. Can they not see that the minutes I spend talking to them would be better spent thinking? I am only here for six months: every second is precious!
Of course, this is simply culture shock. At this point my thought process is already abstracted far away from any sick and dying and vulnerable people. I simply must come to terms with the fact that saving lives is a nine-to-five desk job.
And once the stress has built up high enough, I might treat myself to dinner at a fancy restaurant.