Cessation
I found this story while mindlessly cleaning computer files. I have a vague memory of writing it. It's fuzzy, though.
Andy Hill knew he needed to cease, but the numbers prevented his cessation. They forced him to perpetuate.
This morning, like most mornings, he woke with a dark, festering hole in his stomach. The hole was always painful, but it could be addressed and healed partially if he accounted for its origins and reasonings. He could then drink some water, defecate, find clothes, and leave the house.
The night had been typical, which meant it was a series of predictable events. He transitioned from active afternoon engagement with his work to general but distant evening engagement with his work, to time-has-no-meaning slightly drunk engagement with his work, to late night ashamed engagement with his work, to no engagement with his work. Previously in the day, he might have interacted with a person or persons, but the process was the same. People or business. It didn’t matter. The process of engagement was the same.
Keep reading with a 7-day free trial
Subscribe to Calamus Words to keep reading this post and get 7 days of free access to the full post archives.