My heart is heavy but I must press on. There are those that need me and I cannot afford to fold, though the way ahead is unclear and my footsteps uncertain. Sometimes it seems that all I have known is pain and I must remind myself of the truth. Of happy days and laughing, holding hands and walking in the moonlight. These thoughts, they comfort me and give me a little courage to press on. But I am not man enough to meet the demands that are placed upon me. The pressure is great and growing still.
At night as I lie awake with the worries of the world upon my mind, I feel so alone, and I wonder: are there others like me? I cannot shake it. This feeling, this lonesmoness is in my bones like a cancer.
I am restless. But I cannot leave. My purpose is here as much as I want to reject it. Not a crusade of my choosing, but a difficult and hateful burden I have neither the strength nor desire to place upon my shoulders.
Still the pressure is there, my constant companion, the only true friend I know. For as much as I despise it and the task at hand, at least I know that it will always be there. Unlike my so-called friends and the women who told me they love me, then left me. Frivolous creatures exuding joy and false hopes then melting away like mist in the morning. With people you never know what to expect, except that they will let you down when you need them most.
The weight on my heart though, anxiety and fear, these I know and have always known. After all of these years I thought I would be used to the way that I am but alas it is not to be. If I can’t understand it I must accept it for what it is. So I struggle on, even as I stumble and sink under the pressure, the pressure that will never let me be.
There is no glamour in this, no glory to be found. It is my lot to toil my days away in obscurity. Fame, wealth, recognition, they mean nothing. In the end it is the soldier in the trenches, the unsung hero, the youthful dead littering the battlefield, who are responsible for winning the war. I am not the hero, I am not the devil. I am just a man, put into a world turned upside down, and subjected to the fickle whims of humanity with all of its ills.
I am a roaming pillar that holds up the sky. I am Atlas looking for a Hercules.
Every breath measure the length of my sojourn here. I dream of the end, of that day when this winding road leads me home. Of a day when I can lay my burden down. Of rest.
For now though I must continue on my way, hand in hand with the troubles that travel by my side.
The world on my shoulders is broken, and I am broken too. I must tread carefully, or I will fall and slip through the cracks. Then the great weight I carry would come tumbling down upon the heads of those I love. This must not be.
Though I buckle and feel the fractures that form with each step, I will persevere.
I must fight the pressure.