January 8. Eight days into the New Year. 6:30 a.m. Still dark. 3 degrees outside.
He wasn't feeling it. Not feeling it at all. The New Year glow had faded already.
This was not really surprising. He hadn't exactly burst into the new year. It was more like a crawl. Health problems, job stress, repetitive patterns of self sabotage.
He had a little hope going in. A little. Hope tinged with desperation.
Actually hope rocket fueled with desperation.
He knew that once you get into double digits, January 10 and beyond, you are screwed if you haven't cranked up the engine of change. You gotta create momentum right from the start. Otherwise sameness bogs you down, bogs you down quickly and soon you are choking on quicksand.
The quicksand always has a familiar taste.
He needed a deus ex machina moment. Often dreamed about it. For those not into the arts, deus ex machine is a moment in a story when a character or event solves a seemingly unsolvable problem in a sudden unexpected way.
He needed an angel to come down from heaven and kiss his lips with courage. Then again it's probably too fucking cold for angels to travel today.
This sensation is too close to the bone. The speedy erosion of hope, slipping into the haunting awareness of the weight of life. A life that builds up around your shoulders, amasses great weight and prevents you from flying. Prevents you from even trying.
He was Sisyphus and life was his boulder.
Only he had not budged it an inch.
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