Journal/Short Story Intro:
When he woke up to the alarm he felt the overall stiffness that the cold always brought. Winter had finally come, he realized, rolling over in his bed with what can only be described as a potent mix of anger and elation; the elation of another day, the anger of knowing how it would be spent. By the time his feet touched the thinly carpeted floor the feeling managed to shrivel into flat-out annoyance. ‘My bones don’t love the cold the way they used to’, he thought to himself. He stretched to his full height, hearing the pop, pop, pop of each vertebra, the loudest in his neck. He grimaced at the sharp pain in his lower back, one of the many unfortunate conditions he attributed to life in the south.
He wasn’t born in this part of the world. He spent much of his early life in the north-east where the weather was fairly balanced along with his body. A bitter dispute with his father had driven him away to what at the time seemed like his only refuge. In the past he would say he was happy for a while, but when he started being honest with himself he realized he had gone from the proverbial frying pan to the shit pile. Many of the residents here, particularly those within and favored by his family were woefully uneducated, disingenuous and quite frankly, horrible people. At the risk of hubris, he began to see himself as better than them, above them, not necessarily in breeding or economics, but certainly in intellect. He was a scholar, the seed of a philosopher taking root and sprouting over time. Where they were content to sit on their hands and place their faith in hucksters, entertainers and well crafted long-enduring bedtime stories, he placed it in himself, his will, and his ability to persevere. Over time it left him angry and saddened but equally determined. No matter how broken was he wasn’t beaten to the point where he couldn’t pick himself up and try again, which was what he was doing now.
He made his way to the kitchen and began the sloppy but practiced ritual of breakfast, dressing, and checking social media before beginning his morning commute. He checked the clock…4:13 am…. As he scrolled down his timeline two things occurred to him. The first: Man wasn’t meant to rise before sun, and secondly, ‘I didn’t think I could feel this much hate before began seeing Donald Trump’s wrinkly cheeto face everywhere.’
When he woke up to the alarm he felt the overall stiffness that the cold always brought. Winter had finally come, he realized, rolling over in his bed with what can only be described as a potent mix of anger and elation; the elation of another day, the anger of knowing how it would be spent. By the time his feet touched the thinly carpeted floor the feeling managed to shrivel into flat-out annoyance. ‘My bones don’t love the cold the way they used to’, he thought to himself. He stretched to his full height, hearing the pop, pop, pop of each vertebra, the loudest in his neck. He grimaced at the sharp pain in his lower back, one of the many unfortunate conditions he attributed to life in the south.
He wasn’t born in this part of the world. He spent much of his early life in the north-east where the weather was fairly balanced along with his body. A bitter dispute with his father had driven him away to what at the time seemed like his only refuge. In the past he would say he was happy for a while, but when he started being honest with himself he realized he had gone from the proverbial frying pan to the shit pile. Many of the residents here, particularly those within and favored by his family were woefully uneducated, disingenuous and quite frankly, horrible people. At the risk of hubris, he began to see himself as better than them, above them, not necessarily in breeding or economics, but certainly in intellect. He was a scholar, the seed of a philosopher taking root and sprouting over time. Where they were content to sit on their hands and place their faith in hucksters, entertainers and well crafted long-enduring bedtime stories, he placed it in himself, his will, and his ability to persevere. Over time it left him angry and saddened but equally determined. No matter how broken was he wasn’t beaten to the point where he couldn’t pick himself up and try again, which was what he was doing now.
He made his way to the kitchen and began the sloppy but practiced ritual of breakfast, dressing, and checking social media before beginning his morning commute. He checked the clock…4:13 am…. As he scrolled down his timeline two things occurred to him. The first: Man wasn’t meant to rise before sun, and secondly, ‘I didn’t think I could feel this much hate before began seeing Donald Trump’s wrinkly cheeto face everywhere.’
