Monday morning... After the argument I had with my boss when leaving on Friday, I really don't want to go to work. A pointless argument about some trivial matter - we simply didn't share the same opinion. And for some reason, I had persisted, probably because I knew I was right. But my boss wouldn't listen to my perspective, too determined to push her own view. Things escalated quickly, with arguments flying from all directions without being valid for either of us. Our voices got so loud that all our colleagues turned around, and then nothing. Suddenly, like the end of a musical score, silence. We had run out of things to say, out of arguments to convince the other person, to make them finally understand that our point of view was the most legitimate. A stupid and fruitless argument, the kind that happens in every journalism office. And yet, I know I'm right. But my boss will never budge. It's so difficult to recognize one's mistakes, and even harder to accept them.
Monday morning...
Seven o'clock starts ringing on my alarm. Time to get out of bed. Unfortunately. Don't you ever have days like this? Days when you really don't want to go to work? Not because you don't like your job, but just because you don't feel like it? You simply don't have the spirit? Today is one of those days for me. If I could, I wouldn't come back for a good week. Unfortunately, my current bank balance would only let me survive until Thursday morning, if that. The end of the month is tough for everyone, well, almost everyone. But I won't start dwelling on that subject - I've already tried writing long articles about it, let's not go there again. With a deep sigh, I throw my feet out of bed. It's really time to get up if I don't want to be late! I quickly switch my suit from night mode to day mode, while I hear my mother's voice from downstairs yelling at me to come down because breakfast is ready. Once ready, I rush down the stairs to quickly eat something and flee through the front door. My mother says nothing in front of her barely defrosted plate, just like my father. It's their habit - talking isn't part of their language, much less starting a conversation. You don't choose your family, what can you do? It's like a lottery where you never really know the rules, and you end up with parents who, like mine, prefer silence to words, routine to surprises, and radio to conversations. But that's how it is, you have to work with what destiny has given you. So like every morning, the radio occupies the table. Loud, because my father is half-deaf, it fills my ears and prevents me from thinking about anything other than my plate. A stuffed croissant. I hate that! A croissant should be plain or it's not a croissant at all! But in recent years, the trend has dictated otherwise and everyone started stuffing croissants with anything and everything, both savory and sweet. Disgusting but trendy, so what can you do, no one can fight against that! Not even those who run things. I'm hungry so I take a reluctant bite. It's as awful as I thought. Trying not to think too much about the horrible taste invading my mouth with each chew, I force myself to listen to the radio.
"And by the way, did you hear yesterday's breaking news?" begins a woman's voice.
"Yes!" exclaims another. "A researcher has just proven through simulations and incomprehensible scientific and mathematical calculations that certain parallel worlds might exist."
"What do you mean?"
"Basically, to simplify and not lose our entire audience, there really would be other worlds. Worlds where you and I would exist, with the same appearance, probably the same voice, and maybe the same character, and yet these people wouldn't be us. Incredible, right? They're not like mirrors but rather like doubles of ourselves. Identical but different because they live their lives completely independently from ours. My name is 1Z26 and I'm a journalist, but the other 1Z26 on her planet could be called... for example, Tomato and be an airplane pilot! Nothing connects us except our dream physique! I'm joking of course, but it's absolutely fascinating! And besides, we live light-years apart from each other so there's no chance of running into each other at the local supermarket!"
"How funny you are, 1Z26! But it sounds crazy! I wonder what this other me is doing right now?..."
The conversation continues in the same vein while I finish the last bite of my morning torture. I conclude my meal with a long sip of fruit-flavored vitamin drink with sugar, savoring this fizzy moment of respite before facing the day ahead. I finally stand up, ready to leave.
"Have a good day!" I call out loudly as I slam the door. A barely audible parental response reaches me as I'm already rushing toward the bus stop, my footsteps echoing on the sidewalk. The vehicle has just stopped when I arrive, and I quickly hurry inside. I validate my journey with the transport chip integrated into my suit and skillfully weave between passengers until I spot a free seat at the back. Without hesitation, I make myself comfortable - after all, unlike the others who will get off in a few stops, I have the entire city to cross. An hour's journey! This forced reflection time allows my thoughts to wander to the conversation heard on the radio. If these parallel worlds really existed, what could my life be like on this mysterious twin planet? Would this alternative reality be so different from ours?
I can't help but wonder if there too, people wear these anti-pollution suits that have become our daily reality. Just a few years ago, no one wore them, they simply didn't exist. But today, they're an integral part of our society. Despite the existence of a varied color palette ranging from bright green to deep purple, through soft pink and sky blue, a strange social conformity pushes everyone to invariably choose black. The poetic names of colors proposed by the company were tempting, but they failed to convince their audience. Wearing any other color immediately classifies you in the category of, at best, eccentrics, and at worst, people who can't be taken seriously. Black has become the emblematic color of our world, the very symbol of seriousness and normality. Buildings rise like obsidian monoliths, streets stretch like ebony ribbons, vehicles glide silently like shadows, and the inhabitants, all without exception, are wrapped from head to toe in their black suits. Even the urban vegetation, these few resilient plants that persist in our public spaces, seems to have adopted this chromatic monotony, their leaves displaying dark hues as if trying to blend into this monochrome landscape.
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I remember my childhood, a not-so-distant time when we could still distinguish the diversity of skin tones, when faces weren't hidden behind these protective masks. The arrival of anti-pollution suits has transformed our relationship with others - today, we are nothing more than anonymous silhouettes, standardized human forms. Even our eyes are hidden behind this high-tech protective barrier. I was among the first to adopt this technology, or more precisely, my parents got it for me as soon as it came out because I was still in middle school at the time. I have to acknowledge its benefits: my childhood allergies have completely disappeared. Yet, I can't help feeling a certain melancholy thinking that our victory against pollution has come at the cost of our visible individuality.
Faced with this loss of facial expression that considerably complicated social interactions, researchers developed an ingenious solution: the integration of two small screens at eye level, called YEM0, a contraction of the words Eyes and Emotions. These screens, equipped with sophisticated sensory sensors, translate our emotions using the universal language of emojis. This innovation quickly solved the problem of non-verbal communication, allowing everyone to instantly understand their interlocutor's emotional state. The success was immediate and sales have continued to grow since. Improvements followed one after another: the automatic transition from day mode to night mode, and especially, the integration of the self-cleaning system that revolutionized our daily hygiene. No more need for traditional showers - a simple connection to our domestic system suffices. It's been a decade now since I last felt water running over my skin. These suits have become our second skin, an extension of ourselves. And I think no one in our society would be capable of living without them.
This technological revolution has a name: ADR1EN, like its creator and designer ADR1EN 2MIANGE. His invention has propelled him to the rank of the wealthiest man in our known world - although perhaps, on that other planet the radio hosts were talking about, there exists someone even richer? After conquering markets and amassing a colossal fortune, ADR1EN is now turning to politics, aiming for the presidency in the next elections. A CEO becoming president... I can't help but wonder about the implications of such a transition. If elected, he would become one of the five presidents who govern our planet. I wonder if our twin planet is divided in the same way as ours? Indeed, our world is divided by immense oceans into five distinct and autonomous parts. I live on the continent of Rocharria, a rocky land with rugged landscapes that has managed to transform its apparent austerity into strength. Our continent, although poor in natural resources, has forged an enviable reputation thanks to its intellectual wealth and technological innovation with companies like ADR1EN's that monopolize the global market. Each continent in our world takes its name from the natural element that most deeply characterizes it. The other territories are thus Sablana, a mysterious world perpetually buried under shifting dunes and swept by powerful winds; Neigana, an icy kingdom where eternal snows cover millennial secrets; Terriara, fertile land where vast lush forests and plains of red clay stretch out; and finally Metaria, mountainous territory with precious mineral-rich depths, whose majestic peaks pierce the clouds. I dream of being able to visit them all one day, but obtaining the necessary visas represents a real obstacle course. The administrative procedures are endless, the costs are exorbitant, and my Rocharrian passport prevents me from applying for many places. Moreover, several regions are unfortunately under the control of powerful local mafias who control the territories with an iron fist, making certain areas practically inaccessible to foreign visitors. The rare people who manage to travel between continents are either extremely privileged or have important political connections.
But I'm getting lost in my reflections, letting my mind wander toward these alternative realities rather than this twin planet. I can't help but wonder what this other world, this parallel version of our society, really looks like. Is it as polluted as ours, with its masked city dwellers and veiled skies? Is corruption as present there, infiltrating every layer of society like an invisible poison? Do the inhabitants of this parallel world face the same daily challenges, the same struggles for survival in an increasingly hostile environment marked by climate change? Perhaps they've found solutions we haven't even imagined, or perhaps their situation is even more desperate than ours?
As a journalist, I spend my days investigating various subjects, or at least I try to deepen my investigations as much as possible before my articles are blocked by my boss or our precious sponsors. I write tirelessly, producing a considerable volume of content, but the majority of my writings remain superficial and formatted, far from the in-depth investigative subjects I dream of. The press has unfortunately always functioned this way, prisoner of its own constraints. Political correctness reigns supreme, like an invisible guardian ensuring that every word, every sentence, every paragraph is carefully weighed so as not to offend the sensibilities of those in power or the big bosses who hold the purse strings. This constant self-censorship has become second nature in our profession. It's not uncommon for us to have to wait several years, waiting for the right moment, before we can finally publish an article on a subject whose existence is an open secret, known to all but never officially acknowledged. This is the sad reality of our profession here, a precarious balance between journalistic truth and economic survival. I know that by expressing these critical opinions about our media system, I risk being perceived as a rebel, a dissident who refuses to conform to established norms. This uncomfortable position often places me on the margins of social consensus, sometimes making me doubt the relevance of my observations. I'm particularly aware that this critical vision of our profession and its compromises is not shared by the majority, and that it particularly provokes incomprehension from my parents, who have always favored a more conventional and accepting approach to the system. Faced with this delicate situation, I've learned to internalize my reflections, carefully keeping my opinions to myself, while continuing to silently observe and analyze the mechanisms that govern our world. I wonder if my other self encounters the same problems in her daily life, light-years away from here?
My bus announces the terminus as my imagination gradually crumbles. I emerge from my reverie, called back to reality: it's time to face this Monday and, above all, my boss!
