Everything seems to be exhausting me, no matter how much sleep or how much coffee I drink or how long I lie down, something inside me seems to have given up. My soul is tired.
He remembers the times they’d walk toward him in the playground with that same look on their faces. ‘It’s the four horsewomen of the apocalypse,’ Jimmy Hailler would say. ‘They’re going to make us doing something we don’t want to do.’
'We're not going to give in,' Tom would say.
But they did. Always. ‘Think of the alternatives,’ Jimmy said. ‘They love us. Imagine if they hated us.’
I will keep trying.
I don’t have to keep trying; there is no obligation for me to not just give up, just slump down until I fall away and join the inanimate matter of this strange other world.
I don’t have to keep trying.
“Remember that,” I say to myself as I keep trying.