A long and lonely night, and nothing to show for it except maybe a few empty boxes left behind and the lowly tips from a few generous souls. To be the man that delivers the packages of joy to all those who never ask for it, that is a job that not even this man can handle.
One can ask why, or how, or even when he'll show up, but we do not know. We only know the loneliness. Desperation eating away at his soul, no heart filled with love, no one to call his own. He is only the messenger, and we all shoot him with our joy.
Sad and looking for a way out, who will bring him down next? Will we all sorrow him with our happy families and trendy sports cars? Does he envy to be like us, working in a barren cubicle with nothing to call our own? We do not know, but we can stop the desperation.
He waits for the next delivery. Sitting in his chocolate polyester shirt and pants, wondering when his package will come. The package that ends the sorrow and departs the worry in his life. Such a day will never come, so he slogs with tears in his eyes, wishing for his packaged dream to come true.
His dream of a world so far gone, that only he'll know happiness. Packages will be delivered to him, not from him. Joy will overcome him when he opens the last one, a bicycle built for two. And he has one to call his own, one who calls calls him their own.
They will ride the bike away, into their dream world where people do not deliver packages and things aren't always what they seem. Yes, he will have his life, finally, but what about everyone else?
Who will bring us our boxes? Our envelopes filled with catalogs and mail order products? Who will bring us our As Seen On TV grills and CD's? The days of The Best of The Bee Gee's will be no more, and George Foreman will sob for the loss of his Fat-Reducing Grilling Machines.
The man in the brown shirt, with the gold name tag that says 'Dave,' he will no longer be. He will be one of us. Working in an office, under the control of a tyrannical ogre named Mr. DoWhatITellYouOrElseYou'reFired.
Will he be happy? Who knows. He thinks he will be, but he doesn't know the real meaning of happiness. True joy, whatever that may be, can only be found doing what you're good at. And he's good at making people happy.
We want to be content with what we have, but that never happens, not as long as we all have jobs we have to get back to. Our deliverer of packages will never be content at making others happy - perhaps he should become a serial killer. But that would lead to many deaths, and most likely, he would end up alone. Again.
Such a hard decision, and yet a simple one at that. Does he dare quit, and risk never finding what he so desperately wants and needs from his life? We can't tell him what to do. He's his own man, and he'll make the right decision in the end, no matter how far he has to go to make it.
The truck is loaded and it's time to make his rounds, so he climbs aboard and starts his journey to the far end of the world, where people are not happy all the time, at least not until they get a package from the UPS man, the only man that can make all their sorrows disappear.
Big boxes and little boxes, long ones and short ones, all day long he does nothing but send them off with the once sad like him families who now laugh in his face with a jesting glare. "You'll never be this happy. Not as long as you're the UPS man," they seem to say.
So he trogs back to his truck, daydreaming of what life could be without this hellhole of a job. As his dream reveals itself, he can't help but smile wickedly as he imagines what pain and agony he'll cause when he is finally happy.
The triumph will gleam in his eyes as he sees what he has done. He will be glad, for everyone else will suffer. Can we know this true happiness? He thinks we can, since we do not deliver the packages, but only we know it's not that easy.
He thinks our lives are easy - sitting around waiting for that box to come. The truth is it is far from easy, perhaps even difficult at times. I do know that he knows not of our true lives, our desperate grasp for the happiness that we all seem to want. The happiness that no one ever really knows, because it's a sad, sad world.
True, we may seem happy when he hands over that delivery, but up until that moment, our lives were as his is. Lonely. Loveless. A small price to pay for the prevention of death, but even we can't prevent death. We're just human beings, after all.
But he would rest so much easier if he only knew what we all know. No one will let him know. We want him to suffer, to eat his words, to be more miserable than we are ourselves. We want someone to be our scapegoat, to take all the blame, and to have nothing to call their own. If I can't have it, then he sure as hell can't. That's everyone's theory, but it never works out. We'll all die eventually, with nothing to call our own. And then we'll be wondering what could've been, if only we had let him know that he wasn't alone. He was far from it, with us on the same side.