It always happens to me, immersing myself to a lot of things, fending off sleep just to get things done from my to-do list, only to find myself waking up at noon the next day like an aftermath of a drink or two gone wrong, while my nephew lingers on from her cribby throne (or throne-y crib, whatever fancies your fanny). What makes this situation worse is struggling to recall the specifics of what took place these past few days. I vaguely remember the structure of my cold, calculated daze, but the warmth of it escapes me.
Such is the bane of trying to go ubermensch on everything and everyday, starting at the beginning of the year. With so much in your mind, you start to forget things, get distracted by short-term goals, experience physical and mental difficulties, and such. Interestingly enough, it is exactly what I signed up for, so for me to whine and bitch about my predicament is like complaining why the earth is round.
Unlike the mythology of the primordial Titan named Atlas, I was not fooled to carry such a huge task paramount to my life’s nuisance. Neither am I a fucking Titan, so that’s two strikes for me. I chose the beauty of the madness and thus must bear the consequences of its fruit. The question now is for how long my body can take up the weight before my weak body gets crushed by hubris.
Let me die by trying, please?