12

Every day was more of the same.

Wake up. Wash face. Get dressed. Breakfast. Brush teeth. Pack bag.

Work. Work. Work.

Lunch.

Work. Work. Work. Work.

Home by seven, exhausted. Twelve hours out of the house, and only a few hours to enjoy life. What to do?

The answer, usually, was the only thing he could do: watch some TV, get some dinner, get some sleep.

And then wake up and do it all over again. 

It was becoming intolerable. There were days when he would shut off his alarm and sit in the darkness of his bedroom, in the evaporating warmth of his bed, and cry.

Not that he would ever admit any of that to anyone else, but he'd sit there and cry, perhaps for twenty minutes, before finally dragging himself out of bed and starting the routine all over again.

Was this all there was to life? Was this what he would be doing for the rest of his existence? 

It made no sense. Why? For what purpose? To survive? To be able to have a roof over his head, food in his fridge? He had half a mind to give it all up. To wander the streets and wander the world and eke out a living somehow - somehow - somehow--

But how? 

It made no sense.

None of it did.

He sat in his car, idling while the digital clock's 7:58 slowly changed to 7:59 and then, finally, 8:00.

Time for work.

But he couldn't do it. He just couldn't get out of his car. There was the handle - and there was his boss, entering the office, waving to him - and there was his lunch, all packed up next to him, already as cold as ice. And he couldn't do it.

God, he just really couldn't do it anymore.

👔

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