Prompt: “From his sleeping patterns he appeared jetlagged when in fact it was laziness”
No one ever inquired. “Long flight?”, to which his ego would answer for him. “You know how it is. Life in the fast lane!”
The angel on his shoulder knew just the right questions to ask. “Long night?, to which his thirsty soul cried out from the depths, “But of course…when will this all be over?”
His father called him lazy, his mother neurotic, his ex wife depressed. He didn’t know when he had hit a wall, but without a doubt he’d hit one, and hard.
He was a seasoned writer, often times digging through his sock drawer to find the loose notes he tore out of his journal. He found an entry from his teenage years. It read:
“What makes a man lazy? Is it a poor work ethic? Not putting his hand to the plow? Is it all about accolades and prestige? Or is a man deemed lazy when he stops trying to divide conquer? I know I’m lazy because I am broken. And because I am broken”
Nothing after that. To the onlooker it seemed as if he’d fallen asleep mid-sentence. How would that have happened? Or perhaps he was trying to be ironic and prove a point of laziness, in that when someone is lazy nothing ever gets done to completion. Clever.
Because he was lazy he was lonely, and because he was lonely he was lazy. He was broken, he said so himself. He meant it literally. Externally. I didn’t realize that when he said ‘broken’…he meant broken bones. That I’d find him broken and unrecognizable after having jumped from the 23rd floor.
I never once considered that journal entry a suicide note. Laziness. The real killer.