the weight

He feels the weight. All the time. Pain would be easier, he thinks. Pain, he thinks, as he knows it, would ebb and flow. Jab, then release. This is different, ubiquitous, oppressive. When he walks he feels as though he’s slogging. When he runs, he feels as though he’s trying to push through something. And worse, he can’t. Like being in Jell-O, maybe, he thinks, in a lighter moment, a better moment. But the lighter moments are fewer and further between, lately. The best time is bedtime. Sleep brings relief. Morning is worst. Until he climbs out of bed. Then, it’s maybe better. But only maybe. His name is Roger and he misses his family. He misses his home. He misses what used to be. You might know him. You might see him and not know. He doesn’t want to tell you about any of this. He’s embarrassed by it. And that only makes it worse. He knows that. But there’s nothing he can do. That's how it works.