Cruel Hands of Fate

Imagine, if you will, a man close to the end, on the brink of completing a series of tasking events that have left him both bereft of all lust for life and completely and utterly exhausted. This man, this emerging new technology in a population of rapidly changing innovations, has spent years of his life for one purpose, for two little letters, and now he is so close he can smell the musky cologne of success - and it smells like greenbacks. However, the nearer our hero comes to the point of success, the farther the finish line seems to be pushed towards the horizon; like a mother slowly backing away from her baby as it struggles to walk and urging it to 'keep on coming, you can do it'. But he can't. He will fall, and the mother will smile even bigger when he does. But this man-child cannot fall, he will not fall. Onward he waddles, each uneasy step akin to that of a lonely drunkard uncertainly zagging his way towards the nearest taxi, unsure which step will be the one that causes him to tumble.

So close. The years have turned to months, the months to weeks, and now the weeks to days. "Soon", he tells himself, "very soon shall I accomplish what I have been sent forth to complete." Each morning the fanciful thought crosses his mind that perhaps he has crossed the line, completed the circuit, finished what others doubted he could do, but alas, the morning is still yet to come to which this fanciful thought, this dream, is to be realized. Struggling through the last excruciating steps of this most unforgiving competition, the man for whom none cheer is fighting the demons of temptation that tease him with thoughts of early release; reminding him that "it sounds so soothing, to mix a gin and sink into oblivion." But still he rises each morning only to fall back down each night. Like the worn legs of a marathon runner: rising and falling, each rise exponentially more difficult than the last and each fall providing less relief than the one before. As each approaching horizon proves to be a false peak, will the adventure continue to its predetermined end, or will the man give in to every aching fibre of his essence. It seems as though at each turn, at each possible exit, he is met with dissatisfaction, like a man with a small bladder who comes across a cemented toilet. Oh, cruel hands of fate.