And that's what it's doing to you. You're getting so used to clearing a mental to-do list, like getting used to an old pair of worn out canvas shoes, that you're even starting to develop a twisted sort of affection for it. It's become an irremovable part of your life, almost like you're addicted, addicted to goddamned work, to a goddamned routine. It's become a weird sort of salvation, stress has become nothing but a massage, relaxing. Idleness, it makes you uncomfortable, unable to just sit quietly, letting the hands on the clock do its rounds,
tick,
and tock,
and tick,
and tock,
letting the sands of time slip by, no longer content with, no unable to watch the gradual change of everything with patient yet intense eyes. And you move the tips of your toes, tap, tap, tap. Your eyes, staring at a fixed point, frowning. Your arms, crossed. Muscles tensed, like a stretched spring.
Broken.
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