The Weight of Tomorrow

There's truly no denying the fact that when I get up each morning I find myself in a rather intimidating environment. The sun rises and sets within the confines of my room why it does not lighten the place inside rather I feel like it is oppressive. I rise from the bed, the beddings surrounding me as if asking questions. Today is yet guys, but I am afraid it is another day which I shall also squander.

Call me Alex. I am a lost twenty-seven year old. I seek retribution in the washroom as I stare intently at the face in the mirror. A face which gazes at me but whose owner is a stranger to me. Dark bags under my eyes. Hair all over the place. I splash cold water on my face. It's small. Yet it never lasts.

Mocha. That is the first step. I need caffeine to kick start this sluggish engine of mine. The kitchen is tranquil, almost serene. I pour the water inside, waiting for it to boil. The kettle gurgles, shattering the silence. My mind wanders to my work. Well, more like another day of daydreaming. I am a bas-relief sculpture with a penchant for verisimilitude, however, the well of creativity is dry. Every extension appears to be a work.

The coffee is being prepared. Its scent permeates the room, but unfortunately it does not energize me. A sip is taken, burning my tongue in the process. I leap but do not stop sipping. This is the only thing that seems to be real anymore.

I move outside. The cold embraces me. I pull my scarf tighter. The streets are busy, yet I feel invisible. People hurry by with their eyes glued to their phones. I wonder if they are also feeling it - the burden of what is to come tomorrow.

Workplaces me under the buzzing fluorescent lights. My desk is messy, with papers everywhere. I find a spot, open my laptop, and stare blankly on the screen that is as clean as the surface of a new laptop. My mind is busy, but no words come out. I look over my emails. Every single one of them is a reminder of my weakness.

"Oh, Alex!" Mia's voice calls me - a coworker of mine. She's radiant, full of energy and life. "Are you coming for the meeting?"

"Of course," I reply, managing to repress a chuckle. I follow her into the conference room, which was meant for the meeting. The team discusses projects, deadlines, and future roles. I nod along, but my mind drifts away. I recalled my aspirations and how they define what I wanted to become; a sculpture artist; a wanderer, at least. I'm confined in this place instead, choked with submission dates.

I make my way to the break room after the meeting. It is always the case that I fill another cup with one more glass of coffee. The taste invigorates me, which is a reflection of my mood. I isolate myself as well and go through various social platforms. Everyone seems to be doing well. Holidays, laughter, and all the other things for which people know how to live. I feel like I am dead to most of them.

With each passing hour, the spike in my anxiety continues. I have to engage with a client after this. Their expectations are literally suffocating me. I have to impress them, but what if I fail?

The sound of the clock is heard. Every little tick seems to drag on for hours. Finally, it is the moment. I grab my bag and dash out. I am heard on a rush – half-running to the cafe. I can already see the disappointment on their faces.

The back of the house is cozy in contrast to the chilly face. I present the client, who is in a purple suit and holds a sheaf of documents. We take our seat, and I start projecting my ideas. He listens, however, his eyes are nonchalant.

“Hmm,” he says and begins to tap his wrist. “I was expecting something better.”

I feel my insides fall. I try to defend myself but the speech comes out in pieces. I can sense the pressure of tomorrow closing in. I walk out of the meeting defeated.

As I make my way back home, the sun is seen setting down the horizon, covering the sky with hues of orange mixed with purple. It looks splendid, yet I am unable to take pleasure in it. The pressure is too much. And then I remember my hopes again. Whatever happened to the innocent boy who dreamed about endless possibilities?

It was my customary pattern to return home and collapse on the couch in silence. I allowed myself to be swallowed up in the calm. I close my eyes allowing the milky haze to take over my vision. It is appealing, less so than dealing with the expectations of the day after. But even in that moment, an idea sparkles.

What if the next day is changed? What if I give it a shot?

I rise to an upright position. I retrieve my drawing book, which has not been in use for several months. I turn to the next available page. I begin to draw and my hand shakes. Lines start to form, figures begin to take shape. For the first time in many seasons, I experience the flickering ember of hope.

The burden of tomorrow’s weight remains but perhaps this time, I can bear it. Gradually, line by line.

Life’s challenges can sometimes make one feel suffocated. However, embracing creativity and pursuing one’s hobbies can help relieve the pressure. In times of despair, for instance, it is also possible to restore hope and resilience simply by taking baby steps towards the attainment of our aspirations.