Repetition.
My mechanical body just kept going and going, madly driven by two 16 oz Monster cans and 7 cups of coffee.
My mind has gone numb, but my body is fighting it. Constantly in repeat mode I rummage through task lists and forgotten Post-It notes in my shriveled black backpack. In exaggerated obsession my reddened eyes went through each scribble on my 200-page black notebook. Anything for a quick fix. Anything to satisfy the world.
I sat at the edge of my bed, and I ponder what’s left of life.
Is this life?
Is this my calling? My destiny? My fate?
I lie on my bed and stare at the ceiling, body parts aching and nursing a migraine. I scan the ceiling from corner to corner in constant repetition.
Constant repetition.
Repetition.
That had been the summary of the life I had lived. Repetition. It didn’t matter if it was pointless, if it was futile, if it was all in vain.
It’s all I have. And repetition seems to be the only feasible answer.
I will close my eyes and wake up in 2 hours. I will bid the numbness temporarily and wake up to...
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