Comfort = The deathbringer

 There are few things that make me smile these days. It's all a march up a  wet, cold, muddy hill with an uncomfortable load on my back, which at times, feels as if it is breaking. 

Time no longer matters. I just see a blur of faces each day. They don't see me; I don't see them. It's like nothing at all happened some days. 

When I'm too scared and broken, I just shut down, but sometimes I'm able to work for great stretches at a time. At 37, there is a real problem: I don't have a proper job, and even those who are "Trying to help me" are actually steadily undermining me. 

Therefore, the only thing that's left to do is work like  a demon possessed. Blot out the world, and make each day as simple and productive as possible. 

It's not driven by hate anymore. This time it's for myself. 

I used to resent the way I was treated. Now I just stomach it and move on to the next thing I can do.