Resignation Letter Template

I am writing to inform you that I am no longer interested in working at ______. Today was my intended last day. I will not be returning tomorrow. I sincerely apologize for any difficulties this may create for anyone.

I felt I was doing work without purpose. Having no windows to look out of agitated me. My health is beginning to suffer. I won’t get into that. Please only follow up if absolutely necessary. 

Signed,

__________

                                                                            8:8:8:8:8:8:8:8:8:8:8:8:8:8:8:

I am leaving for new problems. If I keep going in this direction my current readership — made up of nobody, or myself at most — will get tired of constant variations on escapisms and descriptions of dimensionless textures emitted from fluorescent office lights — engulfing and punishing yet small and concentrated as an image seen through a key hole — experienced within a head atop drooped shoulders atop a flattened office chair seat cushion. I was tired of it from the beginning. 

Sometimes I grow conscious of the way my toes wriggle inside my shoes and feel an impulse to take them off. I initially wrote “strong impulse,” but the falsity of that adverb immediately made itself felt. I feel nothing strongly. 

The laptop light is washed out in this tepid fluorescent bath. I think about and feel sort of vague yearning toward the idea of a laptop light that is warm and singular in its blueness. A laptop light creating a slight contour with the inanimate objects surrounding me in a small bedroom. A cherished and coldly loving laptop light.

I will sleep fifteen hours a day. The nine waking hours will be experienced in a dream state indistinguishable from the other fifteen. Being awake will feel like a reflection of sleep — the appearance of sleep but different on the inside — and give rise to expressions that would be against company policy in this windowless office, where I am both too awake and too asleep, deprived of dying as much as of living. I am tired of talking about the devoid windows encasing concrete walls and the fluorescent light filling the sun’s absence. But there’s something in my eye and I can’t resist scratching. My contact fell out. I left my sweatshirt at home. I want to travel maybe.

I don’t consider this place or the the people voluntarily entering it each day necessarily my enemy, necessarily bad, or even very different from myself sometimes. I just want to distance distance myself from them. I don’t know why exactly. I don’t know anything exactly. I don’t feel anything exactly. I’ll think about it more after I leave. It will enter my head in a tent in the state park across town on a July night —  soon or some other year in my twenties — while the sound of cicadas and passing trucks illicit a memory of the almost living hums and clicks of automatic doors and machines calibrating themselves, and a thought will float up from inside of the 300 people inside that windowless building, of people in other windowless buildings with lights that snuff out the existence and possibility of loving laptop lights in solitary rooms, and I’ll think, and I’ll think, and I’ll think, and I’ll focus on a bug.