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One sometimes has trouble going on. It's not a matter of being suicidal, really. It's more a matter of fatigue, a general weariness of the spirit such that One wonders what the point is. One thinks of inertia, how a body in motion tends to stay in motion unless acted upon by outside forces. One feels these forces, the friction of the world, the pull upon the muscles as One marches toward an infinity of dreamless sleep.

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Life, for One, seems like a long-distance race, and One is only half-way through with it, and has so much further to go. To stop running is to stop living. One didn't pace one's self properly, perhaps, ran too fast at the beginning. Now One is out of energy, knows the finish line is far far along but doesn't know how much farther One must go. One must keep going. That's all One knows.

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Just one more step. One more. One.

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