These are the times that try men's souls. I think that's the quote. I'm not sure where it's from, but it's
fucking appropriate.
I tongued the control, moving down the street in a whirring rush at all of maybe four miles per hour.
These are the times: when suicide isn't an option, when anger keeps you going, when you can't sleep, when you can't laugh.
That try men's souls: testing to destruction, working to failure, trying to quit.
It's a peculiar feeling, really. Complete rotundity, unperturbed by interruption. I remember the depression setting in; the exhaustion and the hatred and the lassitude and the immobility - made more piercing, naturally. I ate small Matterhorns of food each day, trying to ingest the hatred and the anger and the regret, maybe hoping to purge it out.
I failed.
Eventually you have to stir. You have to move. You have to work; you need money, you need food, even if you're as overweight as I. I'm fortunate, I suppose; my skills aren't related to my limbs, except that I've had to learn to speak slowly for the voice systems. I can hack. I can manage. I can watch. Voyeurism de rigeur given my condition.
The doorway is ahead.
Legless and obese, I scuttle into the grey office tower, for the first time in four months since the accident, and hope that the task of adapting will supplant the bored and bitter anger.
Nodeshell Challenge issued by yerricde!