He hadn’t quite got to grips with life; stumbling into one dead-end after another, backtracking having never understood what had gone wrong, yet somehow muddling through. And it was happening again. The same kind of wall was starting to form ahead. Another week, another month, and he’d start to retreat. This time though he’d resolved not to advance again; he’d make-do in situ. Live hand-to-mouth, slowly decay and retreat from view. Maybe there could be solace in loneliness; some inner peace free of hurt and hope. Perhaps that was how things were meant to be; the natural order of things.
A drabble is a story of exactly 100 words
1 comment:
I like the insight here, Rob. I think a lot of people probably feel that way, and you've expressed it well.
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