Today is the Day

“Today is the day,” I tell myself as I wake up. The first day of summer, a fresh start. Sun is shining bright, indicating hot weather. I wake up, brush my teeth, look at the clock, the little arm is passed eight. I’m hesitant to begin, the task seems easy enough, I've been meaning to write this letter for a long time. But I don't begin, knowing I cannot be late at work once again, I take my keys and walk out. I don’t despise my job, after all, it sustains, for nine- to- five that most are condemned to pay. Similar to other occupations, it has its merits and downfalls, but regardless of its merits, it does not aid me in the path of actualization. To dedicate such a huge part of my life to my job, I must accomplish this one task to find some meaning, an objective besides sustainability. It's afternoon around five when I get home. I can write a letter now. In an attempt to get a pen and paper, I come upon the conclusion that I am tired. Too tired perhaps. Surely, one cannot accomplish a task of such importance when tired and famished. Eight o'clock I eat, nine o'clock I watch tv-  ten o'clock my eyelids begin to shut- eleven I am deep sleep. 

“ Today is the day,” I say, the first day of fall. It is a fresh start. I look out the window, enough to appreciate the foliage. I look at the dried leaves on the ground, almost hearing the creaking sound they make when crushed. I take a deep breath, it’s a Sunday, I don’t go to work on Sundays. It's great as now there are no distractions to keep me from writing the letter. I write “Today…” and stop, the pencil isn’t sharp enough, how improper to write such important matter in lousy sharpened graphite. I begin to sharpen the pencil, it breaks, I sharpen it again. It breaks again. I sharpen it once more and as expected the lead as if mocking me breaks once more this time getting stuck in the gears of the mechanical sharpener. I throw the pencil away, a pen would suffice just as well but I only have blue pens. I enjoy collecting them from front desks, lobbies taking a bunch when no one's paying attention. But they mostly have blue, a common color to write in and the color I despised. It would be unfitting to write a letter so personal in such an impersonal color, maybe I'll write it tomorrow when I purchase some new pens.

“Today is the day,” I tell myself as I wake, it's seven a.m, but it seems like midnight. The sky is dark- greyish, with clouds covering every last fragment of sunlight fighting to shine through. It's the first day of winter, and the streets are covered by a thin sheet of snow. I eat breakfast and go to work. Routinely, I say hi to person A, and nod at person B. Typical day ends, and once again I’m at home, sitting in front of the Tv, eating dinner. I'm tired out from work, I'll begin writing the letter in a bit. After all its too cold, and the sky is too grey. Grey sky takes away every last bit of motivation flickering with me. Nay, I won't write the letter today, and since tomorrow is also cold and grey, tomorrow will not be the day either. 

“Today is the day”, the first day of spring, I wake up to the sound of birds chirping. The windows are open. I can smell the fresh spring air. I feel the breeze that is moving the curtains back and forth. I don't get out of bed just yet, I take time to stare at the ceiling. I begin to think about the letter, a simple task postponed and like a snowball falling downhill, it takes the snow on its way a grows large. With every day passed, it becomes more and more difficult to complete. Though not difficult in a physical sense, nor mentally restraining, but somehow, due to "this" and "that" the task seems to find its way into tomorrow, and the day after that, and so on. Some things are difficult, because of their simplicity, but that in itself is a mere disguise for the complexion. Following the thought, I get up, I get dressed, and make myself a coffee. I blankly read today's news, I’m dedicated to writing the letter today. In an attempt to reach for a pencil, I am stopped by an immense, foreign pain spreading from my shoulders my arms, palms, fingers and the rest of my body. I have never felt anything like this before. I try to breathe but even the most basic, nevertheless vital functions seem impossible. In an attempt to take a step forward I collapse. I look around my empty apartment for help, but I'm alone. At the most miserable state, like a cliche, in a matter of milliseconds, my life flashes before my eyes. All my years at work daydreaming, all my hopes, dreams, expectation, and plans for the future which I have not begun. Oh, and the letter so much time to write, yet, so little written. In moments like this one is bound to perceive life as short, like a flickering candle that might go out at any arbitrary moment, however, I remember a time I thought life is infinite. I guess the reassurance breeds an unearned sense of control, that one does not have. I think about the receiver of the letter. I vision their face as they open it, and in my mind, the absent letter makes me calm. But that's merely a by-product of my shattered imagination as the receiver will never receive the letter. Now, I feel myself dozing off. I am not at peace.

"What was his name?" asks person A.

“I think they called him Greg” responds B.

“Seemed like a nice guy” person A

"I suppose, never really talked to him," says person B and continues, 

"He died last week, heart attack, they say. Found dead after two days, isolated in the house. Such a lonely guy, it's truly awful, but for now, let's get back to work."