Wednesday, April 16, 2014

Walkabout To Nowhere 1.2

From city to city. He took trains. He walked. The Man smiled and joked and met people.

But he was not alive. Inside - all the while - he was shivering alone, scared, trapped.  On the inside, he churned, cutting himself to pieces with a million tiny razors - of doubt, of pain, of disgust. 

On the outside, he smiled all the while.

The Man had always been able to work quickly. He had a talent for handling many tasks in a short amount of time. But now the more he tried to focus, the more distracted he became. He brooded and worried. He was unable to act. Unable to make decisions. Moving through life, doing nothing. Avoiding. 

So. He stopped doing things. He let it all slide, so slippery, inevitably downward. 

And so it all stacked up. Undone. Basic tasks - his insurance paperwork, going shopping for new suits, getting a hair cut. And also complicated tasks at work. Things that, if undone, will come back to hurt the Man. 

Every day the pile grows. It sits on top of The Man, heavier and heavier each day.

He dulls himself. To try to stop from feeling sad, from being consumed by his thoughts, his fears. He could distract himself from himself for short bits of time, relieve himself for a while, by eating, by reading about sports, by skimming the news, by watching TV. And then doing those things again.

Every day makes him tired. The Man wants every day to just end. But when he wakes in the morning, there's another one waiting.

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