On the carpeted floor of the south bedroom in that small patch of sun.
It’s as good a place as any to lie. It’s as good a place as any to cry.
But why? Who knows? Is his dopamine too low?
Have regrets piled too steep? Does he just need more sleep?
It’s a cycle, a pattern, coming every so often. A comfortable sadness to drown out the madness. A release for the stress in the back of his neck. A beating he takes, when to blame, no one’s left.
A childlike reaction to curl up in a ball. Not much of a man who wallows and bawls.
In fits and spurts, he’s had his successes. Lack of fortitude has left him with messes. A cycle of breaking and picking back up. The ones all around him are wondering what’s up. Why can’t he just go to work like the rest? Why can’t he ignore that the planet’s a mess? Why can’t he turn a blind eye to the truth? Why can’t he forget what he reads in the news?
He’s not locked up in an institution. His prison is different; it’s of his own doing. Every good thing that comes his way makes him uncomfortable so he throws it away. He can’t cope with stress or a boss who yells or deadlines or meetings or anything else.
He built a cabinet of wood with his own bare hands. He laid a floor and ran a retail store. He wrote a program in Perl that is still used today. An OOP, it’s a beauty, if he could frame it he would. He built an engine from pieces left lying about. On paper, he’s great, his resume shouts it.
If his CV was truthful, it would say this: If you play country music he’ll probably quit. If you expect him to look at his email at night, he’ll probably tell you, “No thanks, I’m alright”. If you want him to fake it until he can make it he probably won’t be able to take it. If you expect to put him in over his head, to sink or swim, he’ll probably be dead.
This guy sounds pathetic. I’m glad he’s not me. It doesn’t seem like he’ll ever be happy.