I was tired - tired of my helplessness. I was tired of the fact that every time I tried, I would end up in the same place I'd started. And each time, a little worse than the former. My life was a constant struggle between hope and despair, never happiness.
The city was not motherly. I hated evenings the most. I had not the warmth of a woman, had no job: I had not even a radio to distract me from my wretchedness. It was exhausting that I had to sleep with myself through the night, into another similar night.
I longed for activity. Because even the most mistreated of workers have uncertainties to look forward to. I had nothing. I knew what the next day would look like. And the next, and the next after that. And each was just as miserable as the former. I thought I would die.
I secured some menial jobs to keep me going, but I was ever so tired at the end of the day. To alleviate my anxiety, I conceived a game that I would play on my way back home. In the game, I imagined all the ways I could escape from myself. I never won once.
I had considered begging online but my pride was too pronounced. I did not appreciate friendships. I figured I was too poor to deserve one. I had been to church once or twice, but it had felt so foreign. They said God was present, but he felt so far. In the end, I stopped going.
If people had been unkind, I would not have been as bothered. It would mean they saw me: that I mattered. It hurt me that they ignored me: that they did not see me like they saw the important people. That I could die without ever arousing interest beyond empty sympathy.
I'd stopped sending in job applications. I'd had it with hope. In the afternoons, buckling under the weight of a cement bag, I prayed for luck. It never came. One day, I called my mother. I told her I cared for her; I was sorry I had not been the best of sons.
I bought a rope on my way home. I cooked calmly and took care not to look in the mirror. I then set about tying the knots that the rope might hold firm when I kicking. I was afraid. Of life beyond light. But I was more afraid that if I postponed it, I would hope again.
It is a miracle that I lived through that dark night. I dozed off tying the knots. When I awoke, I only had a few minutes to get to my work station. Somehow, I ended up postponing the exit every day. Until one day, the phone rang, and they said, "Hello Mr. Michael, you are hired"
Such is man's journey. He dangles ever so precariously near death that if he lost a single step, he'd drown in its arms. Such is our fate the children of a lesser God. We are condemned to shuttle between anxiety and exhaustion for if we hoped, we'd suffer even more despair.
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