Breaking Point

Waking up is a wearied acquiesence to the onslaught of daylight.

Minneapolis. 467 guests. May 15.

Orlando. 450 guests. May 17.

The last hurdle is so near, but I find myself gauging my remaining strength, and despairing that it will not be enough to get me there. That shortfall would usually mean a bout of tears or a case of the flu (A convenient, temporary sickness can be embraced like a brother if you're tired enough.), neither of which would presently be very helpful or permissible.

How can I speak of the difficulty of so good a thing? I cannot contend with the point of what I do; I cannot resist the sight of the blurred eyes from a brothel photo, their compelling prods to expend myself like so much water until my head bobs in front of my computer screen, hour after hour in a dayless week without the prospect of a weekend. But I am human and I am tired, and it grows hourly harder not to whine. I suppose I'm already whining.

Connie likes to lecture me on time management and setting personal boundaries, like in the car last night before she dropped me off at the Dorch. She must feel like she's talking to a boulder. I can feel myself glazing over, uncomprehending. Who does she want me to say no to? Her? Which off the impending urgencies shall I slough off? And onto whom? We are all rats that will not leave the ship.

As soon as I ask the question, I am haunted by the line, "Cast your cares upon him, because he cares for you." And my soul answers back, "Even these?"

Perhaps I shall have to start trying it, as little as I understand it. Soon enough, I shall hit the breaking point. It will not be pretty.