The keyboard clicked and clacked as lines of code were written. Data was stored in variables, conditions were tested, and results were sent to views for human consumption. Input was received from the viewers of data and a new cascade of computational efforts was kicked off. Money was made and scripts were run. They will run again tomorrow and the day after that and the day after that.
The Coder he codes. He writes and improves the code. He writes poetry in logic. At least that is what he would do if there were not thousands of dollars riding on the code working and a million opinions about how it works. The coffee still flows black into the cup, black, smooth and warm. Black coffee was a decision made for practical reasons, health reasons sugar has no place in his cup.
He struggles with the view from the window. He can see that a world large and wild lays out there. Millions of people touched by logic he has written but none know him. This is not the tragedy in the Coders mind. In his mind, he does not know any of them. This causes a nagging wave of desperation. This nagging desperation gets many names, depression being the most common.
No, this desperation persists it is a desire to just not be where you are at currently. A simple not living in the moment. The same way sunlight floods into the room from the window with a view, the same reminder floods in on the Coder from the same window.
The Coder sits and he writes logic and he waits longing be anywhere else other than there. Deadlines press and demand his attention and all the grind does is fund a bed to sleep in and play the song of death in its clanging gears.
Our coder has forgotten the sacred fire that burns in the breast of every human being. Finite beings we may be but we infinity burns like a lantern carved into a wooden recess of the human condition. He hides it. He ignores it. He would rather long for days in the son because of the Coder; us, we are wondrous creatures capable of astounding self-deceit.
He writes the logic and the logic chooses the outcome. Always someone is pulling the strings until the machine that the Coder built is whirring along making decisions only carrying a fingerprint only the faintest smell of the Coder. He writes the logic for his own mind and it whirrs along making decisions and only carrying a hint a faint smell of the infinite inside of the finite wondrous creature he actually is. Only if the Coder would choose a better way a different perspective. Every action every moment could be pregnant with meaning and purpose.