Three Hundred Minus One Hundred Eighty Four

A man is welding an iron rod on the tenth floor of the building adjacent to our office. Before he got there, he precariously lowered his rickety carriage by the complex systems of ropes and pulleys. Even with the semi-soundproof panes of the office and the headset owning my right ear, I still heard the complaints of the pulleys as it stressed itself in its task of lowering the man to safety. The creaks of the wooden planks managed to defy all the obstructions between its lofty, outside position to my ear sitting prettily inside the ninth floor of the opposite building. The sheer height of the tenth floor coupled with the crass battering of the wind to the man's body made me wonder if that man clad in his welder's mask is happy with what he's doing. I wonder if he feels safe in being tied to a safety line which does not look sturdy at all. I wonder if his knees buckle and freeze whenever he is raised to even higher heights. I wonder if he's really willing to risk life and limb in doing his job.

I wonder if all that risk is worth taking. I wonder if he's doing the right thing.



I wonder if I'm doing what I'm supposed to do.



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Three hundred minus one hundred eighty four equals one hundred sixteen.