He crawled through the mud and the filth, pausing every now and then to catch his breath and take his bearings. So far, so good: he was staying on course. The jungle and rattle of his pursuers’ equipment had long since faded, and he felt the first dim stirrings of relief deep in his gut. He was going to make it. He was going to be safe. The positivity sustained him for another hour or so, but finally, exhaustion conquered his will.
In the shelter of the next large tree he found, on the firmer ground beneath it, he stopped to pull himself up to a gently reclining position. He listened to the faint rustle of the leaves above him and to the louder chirping and croaking of crickets and frogs. Before he realized it, he was asleep where he lay.
I have been at work for approximately 28 years so far today, and this is all I’ve written. Not even a full sheet of scratch paper.
I don’t even feel the need to finish it or establish anything. Oh, well.
Tomorrow’s another day.
Another day to piss people off by pointing out that they have no right to dictate how someone unrelated lives her life. Even that hasn’t helped how long and draggy this day has been.
Maybe this final hour will be slightly less than six subjective years.