Eight hours. Eight hours of standing in one place, feeling like a tree. My feet have tried putting roots through the concrete, and have been painfully rebuffed, like a stranger. New shoes, new socks, new exercises. Promotions are nothing new, but gravity eats up empty promises like a whale consumes plankton.
The arches, the balance of the foot, are going on the level. I'm forced to walk doglegged to keep from permanently feeling numb from ass to toenail. My back, strong as it is, is starting to feel the wear. It feels stiff and cumbersome by the time I return home.
I always considered myself unfit, but by working, I prove myself wrong. A hundred pound Karcher was lifted into a pickup truck today, by one guy, several muscle groups, and a little help from the laws of physics. A small accomplishment, but no journey was ever completed in a single bound, and no war was ever won with a single bullet.
Sleep from boredom and sleep from exhaustion are my two most familiar states, one last for days, the other lasts for hours. I think of sleep now as some kind of reward, I only get it when my work for the day is done and I'm unable to give any more. I can think of a few people who toil as hard as I do, yet they should not be allowed the reward of sleep, for they toil for all the wrong reasons, and to all the wrong ends.
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