It has long since been clear to me, even before my inception into the vocation of construction (no matter how insignificant my role is in that noble trade), that there would unavoidably be little room for professional growth nor any opportunity for expeditious prosperity (except perhaps if I were the very owner of the structure I am taking part in building). I have no hopes whatsoever, nor even an ambition, to rise beyond the office of timekeeper/labourer. I have too much pride, an inclination of one who has spent years of his life devoted to education, of which not even some months of toiling covered in dirt and grime and exposed to the harsh treatment of the elements could completely eliminate from my being. Notwithstanding my gratitude for having an employment with ample compensation—I could say, not without shame, that this trade is undeniably not for me. No, I can achieve more than just watching a damnable clock and hauling sacks of cement upon my back.

It was my objective from the very beginning to accept the offer in order to provide myself with the means of procuring much-needed funds to bring a pre-conceived 'plan' into realization. As previously intimated, I am at present vehemently harbouring a feeling of utter dejection and disgust for anything that has to do with 'nursing'—a feeling brought about by an annoying succession of misfortunes that wrought has havoc upon my dignity and self-respect as a professional)—not mentioning that, in the process, it has thrown me on the very verge (if not well within the dominion) of bankruptcy. I have given up nursing, at least for the moment—it is time for a change. Hence, a plan—primarily conceived to rescue myself from this mire of despair and poverty—by acquiring, as soon as possible, a stable employment that will provide me with a steady income, restore my demolished sense of worth, and grant me with much-yearned independence.

This 'plan' is very simple: go back to the city of Cebu and there find a dignified profession worthy of my—er—skills (if I indeed have anything left). Mind you, however, that it will be, in no way, connected with nursing nor any of the numerous fields of medicine. I have decided that I needed 'something' else. The 'where' was decided quite easily enough—it was the 'what' that has to be given a most careful consideration. I have a handful of choices and numerous preferences, however, I am not particular. I do need a job, after all—whatever it may be as long as it could satisfy my abject need of money. I have considerably narrowed down the fields, however, after a night of deliberation, without much difficulty. I then spent some time browsing the Internet (a place that has proven to be the unemployed's best friend) for open positions that fell within my criteria. After sending an application letter stating my eager interest for the jobs posted therein, and submitting my resume to the respective companies—it was only then an irksome matter of waiting for the employer's corresponding reply.

Ah, I usually loath waiting and I still do (especially when there is no need for it at all), however, I have learned that it is on some occasions unavoidable, at times even necessary, and is part, I guess, of most processes in this wretched world. Thus, I wait—for an email, a telephone call, perhaps a notification for a personal interview or something of the sort. In the meantime, I continue to perform my duties in the construction site, which makes the pain of waiting somewhat bearable, with an enthusiasm expected of someone who is eager and ready to leave. I did not have to wait much long, however, the much-awaited call came, just as I was beginning to become increasingly paranoid about its delay, summoning me for a 'job interview.' It was an instruction that needed no further entreaty nor repetition. I informed my employer of the necessity of my immediate departure and, before she had the chance of objecting, I was on the next available boat to the city of Cebu.

It was not until we have succeeded in completing the second level flooring, which took at least thirty able-bodied men and twenty-four long hours of grueling toil to accomplish, that I began to consider finding an alternative source of income. It was not that I no longer needed a job (for having any employment is better than having none at all) nor that I no longer enjoy it (for physical toil has its advantages)—it is only that I sense my services are no longer—er—necessary. The usual manual labours that has previously kept me occupied have quickly disappeared since most of the work now consist that of which only skilled workers are allowed and are capable of performing. Although I still am entrusted with the timekeeping and supervision of the worker's daily attendance and professional conduct, I am finding it increasingly tedious. For what is there for a timekeeper to do but watch the hands of a clock when the owner herself does most of the clock-watching anyway? And what is there to supervise when that is already conveniently done by the foreman?

Thus, I have determined to find a new employment without delay—for another month of such dullness would be too unbearable. Furthermore, employment in a construction site does not leave much room for professional growth. I hastened therefore to search for available openings in a place where I will most likely to, as it were, hook a fat fish—the Internet. After hours of exhaustive searching and much decision-making (for I have yet to decide then what trade I would like myself to be a part thereof)—I have struck upon a handful of promising leads—and wasted no time in writing a concise letter to their respective companies stating my profound and earnest interest for the job positions which they necessitate. It was then only a matter of waiting for their appropriate replies; which may consist of a request, if any, for a personal interview—an encouraging first step in being considered for employment, if all goes well.

Hence, I waited (something which I gravely despise) and spent my remaining time in the construction site finding how to best pass it so as to avoid boredom. It was then, during my idle rounds, that I noticed the iron nails used for construction are fast becoming scarce—for the carpenters must need it in assembling anew the intricate wooden scaffolding that would support the third level flooring, the construction of which was currently underway. Yet, there are piles of hundreds of wooden planks, each studded with numerous iron nails, from the deconstructed scaffoldings of the second-level flooring, lying uselessly about on the muddy ground. Finding that no one has troubled himself with this task and finding that I have nothing better to do—I willingly threw myself upon it.

This task requires two steps, which I will describe in detail (as to why—ask me not for I only desire to write without considering its purpose). First, one would need to carefully pull each iron nail individually from the wooden plank, which could contain numerous nails embedded along its body, and deposit them in a container. Step two would require one to straighten the bent and twisted nail by lying it upon a hard wood and beating it straight with a hammer. It would sound as if it were boring and repetitive, and indeed it may be for no worker has yet to pursue the task as diligently as I, yet—I find there is something curiously addictive about it. I cannot fully explain it and I myself find it rather peculiar. Still, I will endeavour to clarify.

A bent nail is a hard-headed thing—unrelenting to any supplication other than that of a hammer. And if you beat at it incautiously—it would twist against your fingers with such force as to inflict a painful contusion or an open wound. Indeed, my fingers have suffered numerous injury in this manner. However, if you carefully and skillfully lay it down upon a firm wood, and beat it down—gently at first—and, as you feel its stern resoluteness give way, one can hammer it down easily until it is straightened out. Thus, having conquered an adamant nail—one can move on to the next. It is a delicate and vital task which, if no one dares to occupy, would leave the carpenters with nothing to do but engage themselves in silly business—such as annoying the unfortunate females who happen to pass the site with their vulgar whistlings and howlings—when the stock of iron nails has ran out.

The Alchemist picked up a book that someone in the caravan had brought. Leafing through the pages, he found a story about Narcissus.

The alchemist knew the legend of Narcissus, a youth who daily knelt beside a lake to contemplate his own beauty. He was so fascinated by himself that, one morning, he fell into the lake and drowned. At the spot where he fell, a flower was born, which was called the narcissus.

But this was not how the author of the book ended the story.

He said that when Narcissus died, the Goddesses of the Forest appeared and found the lake, which had been fresh water, transformed into a lake of salty tears.

"Why do you weep?" the Goddesses asked.

"I weep for Narcissus," the lake replied.

"Ah, it is no surprise that you weep for Narcissus," they said, "for though we always pursued him in the forest, you alone could contemplate his beauty close at hand."

"But... was Narcissus beautiful?" the lake asked.

"Who better than you to know that?" the Goddesses said in wonder, "After all, it was by your banks that he knelt each day to contemplate himself."

The lake was silent for some time.

Finally it said, "I weep for Narcissus, but I never noticed that Narcissus was beautiful. I weep because, each time he knelt beside my banks, I could see, in the depths of his eyes, my own beauty reflected."

"What a lovely story," the alchemist thought.

~From The Alchemist by Paolo Coelho