Most Days & other other stories

Birds chirping. No one’s cheering. Eyes open with major muscles getting ready to finally move. Never really at the perfect state though, for that they’d need some help.

The day is about to be gone; thoughts yet to have been processed. A small clarity fidgets its way around each branching synapse. A looming ambition has already poised itself in front. A poison that was a step ahead. It was never seen holding hands with doubt. Self is confused. The puzzle pieces never clicked together. Why does it hold so many wounds? Why can’t Self recognise the fingerprints imprinted on its throat. Struggle to breathe with a working lung, patient diaphragm, a heart that beats less like the memorised pattern.

Internally exclaim “I’m in way over my head” for most mornings. There’s a routine easily maintained.

A breath feels like a conscious step forward at this point. An hour has felt like an hour for each moment of the day; never concluding the hour that was thought of - the minute would just keep changing, so another hour was coming. There was always another hour until he was unable to stay awake. Then there would be another day.

Place a cup of water, bedside. Blanket goes over the body only after the body has laid on top of the blanket for its few contemplative minutes. No change to plans. Frustration silently ensues. There’s that weight; keep growing despite the empty stomach.

Following on, he carries on the day.

“What doesn’t kill me, confuses me with the point of me. My being here I guess.” he openly ponders to a lesser rank. The wooden back feet drag against the stone tile, revealing the front and seat of the chair. He takes his seat casually and places both arms on top of the table. Hands hug and ball up together. His back attests to a posture so fitting. The lesser rank shuffles to find some form of comfort in his stool. Now inadvertently placed an extra measurement away from the table.

He drags himself away and up to the backrest, hands gliding each plank of rattled wood eventually landing on to his lap. “I don’t think God wants me, and I doubt the devil does either. My place of privilege….” paused in an inaudible cycle of inhalation, “my place of privilege came from the mishaps around me. When everything falls apart but you still stand in the same place, it always, always, looks like you’re the one at the top of the hill. But I. Me. I haven’t moved.” a look away to a deprived wall. “Nobody wants that,” he looks back and stares past the lesser rank’s eyes and moves his mouth again, “Nobody wants to be around consistency where it lies in the bare minimum.”

A strong pause fit for a new story that would not interrupt the flow.

“What doesn’t kill me, confuses me.” he remarks again, “Neglecting responsibilities with lies of other responsibilities, making others think I’m drowning because I do so much. But I’m just drowning with such a common to-do list. I don’t have it hard, I just push against myself harder. All while away from all of you. You guys…” he begins again, expressing his thoughts.

“ ”.

Nothing to care for was expressed.