This morning feels like spring. The air has a different quality, it smells fresh. The sun hits the skin at a new angle, changing the cold to brisk.
As I was leaving the house, I was in a good mood. A smile touched my eyes. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I observed an elongated shadow the rising sun projected onto the sidewalk. I noted a lumbering, Sasquatchesque stride. A gait necessitated by the girth around my middle, that not even the stretched image could conceal.
Gone is the military posture, and confident walk that was present a few short years ago — replaced by pendulous arm swings and rounded shoulders in a failed attempt to hide the beach ball ballooning from my abdomen.
I was going to use the Lenten season to get back on track, but now, only three days removed from Ash Wednesday, I have already been seduced by the permeating aroma of Cebula’s pizza. I devoured six cuts of the carb crammed, sauce and cheese covered oven fried bread.
In a moment of abject weakness, I pathetically cried myself to sleep.
At this moment, life is bad. Actually, it has been for the last decade. I know, I am better off than many, perhaps even most, but that doesn’t speak comfort. I desired much out of life, and I was willing to give my all to earn what I wanted. Now, life has become what I most despise.
Professionally, I have never earned such little income. I work long hours for little gain. I have worked two years without a break, and yet my compensation is so scant, I can barely afford to live and many bills go unpaid.
Cash can’t be saved. Retirement is nothing but a dream. I will most likely die on the job, or homeless, cryogenically preserved in some street’s gutter. Life’s walk isn’t exactly to nowhere, it is leading to stress induced ill health and obesity.
I know I have the power to change at least some parts and better enjoy the unfulfilling time I have left. Sadly, I can’t decide whether I want to.
There is an upside, this period of time has led to productive storytelling.
With fingers dancing along a keyboard crafting and creating characters, I embody those of whom I write. As I bring them to life, I become them. In reality they are not me, yet, they do share bits of me.
I understand the damaged, because I too am damaged. I understand the broken, because daily, I wage war against being broken.
“Who am I?”
I am an independent, self-published teller of tales. I am an author of scarcely any renown. However, as a storyteller, I know who I am, and with that persona, I am both confident and comfortable.
I invite you to visit my website,
and/or Amazon Author Pages
if you are so inclined please purchase a copy and leave a review.