Red Winged Black Bird on a fence post in a field.

Snow Shoveling Hurts


Category: philosophies

I sit here, one eye half open, head full of stocking cap hair. I moan and whine about aching muscles, slumped here in my chair. I'm not as young as I used to be, this fact has been made plain by the creaking of every joint and every muscle's pain.

In younger days, snow was a triumph, beating out nature with my shoveling skills. But it turns out that nature is a sneaky foe, an enemy who always kills. As I stood up against snow, ice, and cold, small victories made me smile. Nature, however, had gotten inside and, using its crafty guile, it weakened my body and sapped my energy leaving me to hurt until that day when I run out of time and they bury me in the dirt.

As much as the pain makes me suffer, it also makes me alive. I'll go out again, knowing I can't win, but I will always strive. Though nature will beat me, when people look at me after I've finally fell, they'll say that's he's dead now as we must all die, but at least he lived well.

Comments (3)
You gotta pick the right guy to do the job.
Go out now and vote for LibertyBob.
Extra dammit with cheese!