Fear and Self-Loathing

"The Woman with the Flea" by Georges de la Tour

He worked late at the factory the previous night and did not get home until nine.  He ate what he had in the cabinets which was nothing much, some Kimchi instant soup and a bag of popcorn.  He sat listlessly in front of the television for an appropriate time waiting for the medicine to work and finally got up, turned off the television and the lights, and went to bed.

Too early the next morning, he woke up listlessly, fed the cat, made the coffee, and sat down to read the morning's news.  His body felt worn though he had not done anything to wear it unless long hours and bad food could wear a body down.  That and the dull, repetitive nights alone again and again.  He'd never been this weighed down.  Weighed down, he chuckled.  Fat.

"I'm not going to work today," he told the cat in the darkness just before dawn.  "I'll call in sick and stay with you."  He was not sick, though, not in that way.  It was simply an impulse, and the little voice of reason began its work right away.  "It's dangerous to do so," it said.  Inaudibly.  He hated that voice, at least just now, for he felt as though he had made up his mind already.  He would go back to bed, he'd decided just before, but now the little voice warned him that he might not fall back to sleep.  And then what?  He would feel horrible.  The day would not go as planned.  He would not be refreshed and satisfied but more frustrated than before.  He was only mopey, he began to think and was deciding that he would go to work after all.

He had not been taking care of himself.  He had fallen off some ledge and had lost all discipline.  It was dangerous.  He could feel that.  But work was hard, his hours longer than ever before.  All around him people were suffering, unemployed.  His father and mother had worked every day and looked forward to getting overtime.  Two weeks a year they took their meager vacations during the window of vacation time allowed by the overseers.  They had not complained.  Nope.  But he had sworn his life would not be like that.  And it hadn't seemed to be.  Only lately.

He stared at the painting by de la Tour, "The Lady and the Flea."  Lamp light and fleas.  Lousy nights. What hope?  You would think we living now would be happier, he thought, but we can do no better than Falstaff (1, 2).

Daylight came and with it resolve.  He would do what he did, what he was contracted to do.

"Don't be too disappointed cat, but I've changed my mind.  You're on your own."  The cat seemed disappointed nonetheless.