Speed Of Light
Entry by: Fletcher & Beaumont
30th January 2015
670,616,629 miles per hour
I want to withdraw from the world. It moves at the speed of light and I - I am a slow particle clashing endlessly.
Where’s the option to stop. Just stop.
For the past year, I have been struggling day to day. To anyone on the outside, I suppose I look successful. I have a lovely family. I have a great job. I believe passionately in what I do in work, at home and in voluntary work.
Every corner I turn, there is a new hurdle. I used to see them as challenges, relish the battles with a rush of adrenaline that surged through my ever young blood. Now I feel tired, so very tired. I push against the hurdle and it stays. I’m going on a bear hunt: can’t go over or under – have to go through. I am a snow plough shovelling endless feet of the white stuff just to move to the end of my road.
I wonder sometimes if this is how everyone feels underneath. They all look like swans, sailing along, effortlessly beautiful. I am a fat duck, stuck at the edge, webbed foot wedged into the mud, waddling helplessly.
Yes, I’m wallowing. So what? I have to wallow as I wonder at the speed of the world. I can’t keep up any more. It’s too hard. I’m too tired. I don’t believe enough.
Stop.
I want to withdraw from the world. It moves at the speed of light and I - I am a slow particle clashing endlessly.
Where’s the option to stop. Just stop.
For the past year, I have been struggling day to day. To anyone on the outside, I suppose I look successful. I have a lovely family. I have a great job. I believe passionately in what I do in work, at home and in voluntary work.
Every corner I turn, there is a new hurdle. I used to see them as challenges, relish the battles with a rush of adrenaline that surged through my ever young blood. Now I feel tired, so very tired. I push against the hurdle and it stays. I’m going on a bear hunt: can’t go over or under – have to go through. I am a snow plough shovelling endless feet of the white stuff just to move to the end of my road.
I wonder sometimes if this is how everyone feels underneath. They all look like swans, sailing along, effortlessly beautiful. I am a fat duck, stuck at the edge, webbed foot wedged into the mud, waddling helplessly.
Yes, I’m wallowing. So what? I have to wallow as I wonder at the speed of the world. I can’t keep up any more. It’s too hard. I’m too tired. I don’t believe enough.
Stop.
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