Working for It

Wanting it and working for it were two completely different things.

Lorna realized this mid-strike, bringing the hammer down more ferociously than normal as she thought about how bad she wanted it, and how little she worked for it.

It was pure laziness, she thought as she checked the edge of the plywood, made sure it was connected snuggly.

She wanted to be gone today. She wanted to leave and hide out in her mind, in the dark recesses she only visits on her own. Her mind was welcoming and screaming, her thoughts both beckoned and angered her. She wanted to feel safe, alone, happy, sad, she wanted to get away and get out all at once.

The only way she could work all this out was with physical work. So she hammered and rehammered and took the nails out forcefully and hammered them back in again. The rhythm of the angry strokes was soothing, musically warm to her ears.

She was breathtakingly fucked with this project.

She looked down at her handy work. It was shit.

The whole idea was shit.

So she kept hammering the sides and ruining the symmetry of the project, she worked and worked and worked until she noticed the day was gone and the night had been here for quite some time.

She wanted it bad, she wanted to work for it.

But it was, in all reality, complete shit.

-D.R Breshears

 

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