14/07/2025
Everyday is a struggle, and there is always something holding us back, our mind is occupied but there is nothing in it, we thought we are thinking but nothing is entering our mind.
The evil makes us low, makes as feel miserable, makes us loose hope.
But at the start of the day we try our best to move forward and even if it ends up still like nothing good is happening, in our hearts we see tomorrow and we will try again.
and still we say our little prayer.
God thank you for holding me,
Thank you for covering me with your blood,
Thank you for the strength,
Please hold me in your arms.
Tomorrow we will try again....
The alarm clock blared, a metallic shriek that tore through the pre-dawn gloom. *BEEP-BEEP-BEEP!* Leo slapped at it, missing twice before his palm connected, silencing the beast. He lay there, staring at the peeling paint on the ceiling, a familiar weight settling in his chest. Another day. Another attempt. The air in his small apartment felt thick, stale, as if yesterday’s failures still clung to the dust motes dancing in the sliver of light from the window.
He pushed himself up, the springs of the mattress groaning in protest. *Sproiiing.* A quick splash of cold water on his face, the mirror reflecting a gaunt, tired face. He barely registered it. His mind, a vast, echoing cavern, felt empty. He’d tried to fill it yesterday, with grand plans, with simple tasks, but everything had just… bounced off.
At the bus stop, the city hummed its morning tune. *VROOOM!* A truck rumbled past, shaking the pavement beneath his worn sneakers. A woman beside him laughed, a bright, melodic sound that grated on Leo’s nerves. “Hahahaha!” she chirped into her phone, oblivious. He just wanted to scream. A guttural, primal sound, *AAARRRGGHHH!* but it stayed trapped, a knot in his throat.
His shift at the diner, a blur of clattering plates and greasy smells. *CLANG! SCRAPE!* He moved like a puppet, serving lukewarm coffee, wiping down sticky tables. The "evil," as he privately called it, was a dull ache behind his eyes, a static fuzz in his brain. It whispered, a low, insidious *Huuuummmmm*, telling him he was pointless, that his efforts were futile. A customer, frustrated with his slow service, let out a frustrated moan. “Ughhhh,” she sighed, rolling her eyes. It felt like a personal insult.
He tried to focus, to inject some purpose into the mundane. He tried to remember the name of the new soup special, but the words scattered like dust. He felt a wave of nausea, the kind that came when your mind refused to engage. He saw the faces of the patrons, their mouths moving, but heard only a distorted mumble. It was like living underwater.
The walk home was a slow, dragging ordeal. The sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in bruised purples and oranges. Each step felt heavy, burdened by the day’s inertia. He passed a group of teenagers, one of them letting out a piercing, joyous scream. “Wooooohooo!” Leo flinched. The sound was a foreign language.
Back in his apartment, he collapsed onto the threadbare couch. The silence was deafening, yet the internal hum of the "evil" persisted. He closed his eyes, his chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. He had tried. He had truly tried. And still, nothing. Still, the void. Still, the weight.
But then, a flicker. A tiny spark in the vast darkness. He thought of tomorrow. He thought of the sun, rising again, regardless of his failures. He thought of the fresh air, even if it was just the polluted city kind. He thought of the simple act of trying.
He sat up, hands clasped, a whisper escaping his lips. “God, thank you for holding me.” His voice was raspy, but it was his. “Thank you for covering me with your blood.” The words felt like anchors, pulling him back from the drift. “Thank you for the strength.” He wasn't sure where it would come from, but he knew, deep down, that tomorrow, he would try again.
