Stout of heart on the edge of sleep late on a Sunday night, tomorrow is the day he will begin again again. He sleeps as though dead.
Monday morning he wakes to the alarm, hits the snooze automatically, rolls over into an anxiety dream, doesn't quite get back to sleep but manages to avoid getting up for another three rounds. When he finds his feet, they are infirm upon the floor. He steps forward, not at all sure.
Something has occurred which has embrittled his spirit again. Laziness, a lack of discipline, self pity, no balls - he hears these things spoken in another voice and semi-counters them with a fuck you that provides no spark at all the first time spoken, not even the second or third.
He's looking at his pale feet in the shower, waiting for an idea. The drain gurgles his sloughed off epidermal cells. This is not my life, it's only that which no longer serves me. He watches the soap suds slide down his body, to the floor, into the drain. That which no longer serves.
Towel dry, find some clothes, off to work - Monday morning. Nothing different. The traffic is waiting, having had a head start, to repel his advance.
But there may be a Tuesday, and tonight he will remember the promise of beginning again again again with courage. This is why he had heretofore never kept a handgun in the house.
Monday morning he wakes to the alarm, hits the snooze automatically, rolls over into an anxiety dream, doesn't quite get back to sleep but manages to avoid getting up for another three rounds. When he finds his feet, they are infirm upon the floor. He steps forward, not at all sure.
Something has occurred which has embrittled his spirit again. Laziness, a lack of discipline, self pity, no balls - he hears these things spoken in another voice and semi-counters them with a fuck you that provides no spark at all the first time spoken, not even the second or third.
He's looking at his pale feet in the shower, waiting for an idea. The drain gurgles his sloughed off epidermal cells. This is not my life, it's only that which no longer serves me. He watches the soap suds slide down his body, to the floor, into the drain. That which no longer serves.
Towel dry, find some clothes, off to work - Monday morning. Nothing different. The traffic is waiting, having had a head start, to repel his advance.
But there may be a Tuesday, and tonight he will remember the promise of beginning again again again with courage. This is why he had heretofore never kept a handgun in the house.
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