Life is difficult. This much is fact.
Also fact is that within this game I call life, the single notable feature distinguishing any one task from the next, perhaps surprisingly, does not relate to the question of whether the impending duty will be difficult but relates in fact, to the level of difficulty it will invariably involve.
The point here is that this life doesn’t simply comprise an assortment of events of which some are bound to prove onerous, but from what I can make out it comprises an assortment of inherently challenging events of which some are bound to prove more onerous than others.
Therefore, I have come to accept difficulty as a way of life.
No, that’s not capitulation, that’s acceptance – acceptance because this life, my life, does contain far more than its recommended quota of gruelling endeavours. Admittedly, a great many of the aforementioned tribulations are brought upon me solely by me and nobody else, which now I look at it, does nothing to bolster my case…
Case..? Seriously? What the hell is even in dispute? The fact that you’re making reckless assertions regarding the inexorable and indeed, the unjustly difficult nature of life..? Why would someone even bother doing that? Ranting about the ills of existence as though the undesirables of the universe have selected their candidate to punish..? As if bitching about said plight is going to make any bloody difference to your cause..? As if this so called, cause, ever amounted to much of anything in the way of genuine hardship, anyway..? Dude. Come on..? Pull your head in.
I glance now at my hands, still adorned with the blood of the morning’s challenges. Such is their condition that to simply clench my fists causes pain. I think. I am longer attuned to that sensation. Not really. Why would I be if I didn’t have to be?
Ah well. Push on.
Article by Tim Walker
Edited by Sim Wan Olce
Photography by Anne Uther