Confessions of an Unknown Worker #1

Alright boys and gals, I'm stepping into the playground of fiction which is still rather unexplored area for me, excluding the few "sparkles" I've gotten every now and then.
The idea for this originated from @escapist who said I should make one particularly 'strange' person (in my eyes) in my work place into a fictional story, but as I started writing, the theme(s) started to shift towards more general matters, therefore ending up as 'The Confessions of an Unknown Worker'.
I have few parts written, these will be nice and short "snapshots" of short narrations.
Obviously there's more than one nugget of truth in my writings because it's largely inspired by the experiences I've had in my civil service but, it is still fiction so do not make any assumptions about 'things' – all fiction has a glimpse of truth anyway.

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I walk to the office like any other day that blends to the next one, forming a single block of memory in which time is crushed into singularity. Looking at the calendar it seems it's been years, but looking inside my head, the days that can be differentiated from each other are countable with my fingers. Somehow I still remember where I came from. It's like I came yesterday but at the same time it feels as if it's been too long. I know the memories are fallible, but what I know implicitly, that's not fooling me, not in this case at least.
I get to my work place, I hope there are no people, I hope all that is left is a crater upon my arrival.

"Click", the time card goes – unfortunately, universe doesn't listen my wishes that often.

Everyday I sit there and see the routines of people: where they look, do they arrive left or right around the table, what's they're posture, gestures, intonation. Some clients still pull the locked door despite there being a clear sign:

Clinic
↓
* button to ring the doorbell *

I thought people like pushing buttons, but I've become convinced they like opening doors more, intruding the personal space of others, yet still they often avoid looking into the eye. 'Walking contradictions on two legs' is how I mostly describe them... us.

At some point I decided to ignore the pulling of the door, the clank at the bottom of my stomach – ring the bell or I didn't hear anything! Luckily they are quick to learn; soon the door bell bings instead of the doomsday kong. I hate that noise, but the more frightening thing is that I've become aware of being conditioned that way.

When you start to see patterns in others, it hits you back like a boomerang: you're an emotional button triggered by a door yourself. You unlock new ability. But it's a trap, for once you become aware of it, there's no turning back from the knowledge – The Pandora's Box.

It's a powerful feeling: I shape their behavior – I am a god. But that's the problem, nobody talked about the painful self-awareness of it. A god that can't change the fundamentals? What kind of almighty creature is that? Just predetermined for these realizations like any other.
It's one of those spirals that shouldn't be touched upon, thinking that you're only the marionette of yourself. Because if you adopt that thought, you become it. It doesn't matter whether it's true. What's relevant, is only that you accept it as your fate. But what if you chose your fate wrong?

What do you think would happen if I started to talk like this during the lunch break? Boomerangs and spirals & boxes. "Umm... didn't Australians invent that, right?" "What you eating?" They would direct it towards something more easily digestible, because obviously I had gotten a food poisoning of some sort. Then one nurse trying to raise on the sly to check if the drug room had been left open...